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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25644421">The End of Heroism</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/7veilsphaedra/pseuds/7veilsphaedra'>7veilsphaedra</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:01:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,340</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25644421</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/7veilsphaedra/pseuds/7veilsphaedra</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tezuka and his family are forced to flee Japan in the years leading up to WWII, but just when they think they have found a safe haven, they are swept up in a broader conflict with devastating consequences. In the midst of crushing loss, confusion and terror, Tezuka finds a kindred spirit in Fuji Syuusuke.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fuji Shuusuke/Tezuka Kunimitsu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Lovefujitez">Lovefujitez</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A 4-part multi-chaptered historical alternate universe fanfiction set circa 1934 - 1948 in Japan and British Columbia, Canada, involving the Nikkei Internment Camps of central BC, using characters from Seigaku in Tennis no Oujisama. </p><p>Written in 2007 as a Christmas giftfic for Lovefujitez for the prompts "Nature" and "Camps". Only realized later that camps were intended to mean tennis camps, not prison camps, but I hope I approached the matter with sensitivity and respect.</p><p>Reference materials and resources posted at the end of the story</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>i. The Ghost Fogs</b>
  </p>
</div>The ghost fogs tumbled down the mountains from every stream, lifted vapours off the glassy surface of the lake, clung to rushes and reeds along the valley. They bore such a close resemblance to misshapen humans and animals but for their insubstantiality that they spooked the superstitious, the insane and those whose minds—through dementia and other ailments—had pulled away from the world, inward to realms where the insubstantial was more real than the earth and rain around them, where the past had more energy than the moment and ancestors were closer than children or grandchildren.<p>Ghost fogs, Tezuka Kunimitsu snorted, refusing to be burdened by the weight of spirits when this cold—cold that bit through the rough wool of his short jacket, sweater-vest and knee-breeches—was heaviness enough. His thoughts skittered over Tezuka Kunihazu, bedridden in a corner of their wooden shack, curled under the weight of rheumatism. Kunihazu’s condition was aggravated by this wet, grey weather. His grandfather had moments where his mind drifted to his childhood back in Japan, but Tezuka was a modern boy and no ghost had the power to shake his resolve.</p><p>Sometimes, the rain was carried on cloud drifts off the Pacific, trapped and held in the mountain valleys. Usually the mists burnt off by midday, however, leaving a clear sky and a warm, golden afternoon which the locals called an “Indian summer,” but which was really an extended autumn.</p><p>All was silent, so early in the morning before anyone else had risen, without a trace of wind or rain to ripple the water or swirl away the fogs. Even the sound of Carpenter Creek, which separated the prison camp settlement from the townsite of New Denver, was swallowed by the fog. It was too silent. The lake, black as the slate stones which lined its beaches, had the presence of a living thing in that silence, a monster which consumed life force, locking the occupants of the prison camp into a cycle of struggle and futility. Oh, it was a beautiful place! A natural beauty that a person might seek out if it could be intertwined with purpose and relationship, but none of them had asked or wanted to be brought here. None of them had the ability to pursue what they had created for themselves prior to being brought here.</p><p>Tezuka picked up a disc of slate, perfectly smooth, perfectly rounded, shaped by water surging over stone. He weighed it in his hand and flicked it across the lake’s surface. He heard its light plip-plip-pli-pli-pli long after he watched it disappear into a bank of ghost fog. It seemed to go on forever. The duration of the sound intrigued him until, with a start, he realized that couldn’t it possibly be the stone.</p><p>His back straightened. His eyes—behind their owlish horn-rimmed spectacles—sharpened. He peered into the fog until the sound shifted from droplets of water falling over the lake into the distinct row of an oar. Seconds later, a shadow moved in the mist then emerged, materializing into a raft upon which stood the most unusual boy Tezuka had ever seen. His features were distinctly Japanese, but his eyes appeared to be blue—Tezuka couldn’t quite tell because they were surrounded by such thick lashes and seemed to be closed in upturned crescents—and his hair was soft brown.</p><p>His heart reacted in a most curious manner, beating harder and faster, speeding the flow of blood in his veins, accelerating his breath, heightening his senses. It was almost as though he was afraid, which was ludicrous because he wasn’t, but his body reacted exactly as though it had received a shock, as though the boy was a creature of the air and his senses could not be trusted. There was a strong sense of predestination around him.</p><p>With one last pull of the oar, the raft glided swiftly to shore until it crunched onto the slate pebbles. The boy leapt off its boards, without a word of greeting but a soft smile. He set down a fishing pole, tackle box and a pail in which swam several trout, then tugged the raft onto the shore and held it on its side to drain.</p><p>He began to drag the thing across the pebbles toward the creek, a difficult and noisy job. On impulse, Tezuka reached over and hoisted up the other end. He nocked an eyebrow at the boy as though to ask, “Where to?” The boy’s smile burned brighter as he trundled backward leading them along, a little awkwardly as the raft was not heavy, but bulky.</p><p>Their silence felt comfortable, like that of old friends. Had they met before? There was a flash of recognition in that initial shock, but Tezuka couldn’t imagine from where. He was almost certain they were strangers. He would’ve recognized that heart-shaped face.</p><p>A copse of willows next to the creek coloured the dreariness with fountains of golden branches and silvery green leaves. The raft --- cobbled from driftwood and the fruit crates which were used for everything in the camp’s households from makeshift cradles, to storage shelves, to bedside tables --- was lifted up and hidden in the branches, like the platform of a treehouse. No one would ever suspect it served a dual purpose.</p><p>After brushing away splinters and droplets of water, Tezuka held out his right hand in the North American style of greeting, “Kunimitzu Tezuka, or some people call me “Mitch” if you prefer.”</p><p>“Hai! I know,” the other boy bowed in the formal Japanese fashion. “I’m Fuji Syuusuke.”</p><p>Before Tezuka could retract his hand, he swept forward and clasped it in both his hands, “I’m so happy to finally meet you, Tezuka-kun … Tezuka. Thank you.”</p><p>Then he lightly turned on his heel, ran back to retrieve his fish and gear, waved goodbye with a last dazzling smile, and disappeared into the camp. The warmth of his touch and of his smile lingered long after he had vanished. </p><p>That is how Tezuka knew he wasn’t a ghost.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When Kunimitzu first arrived at the New Denver Japanese-Canadian Internment Camp, he was awestricken with the landscape. Its grandeur and beauty stood in such sharp contrast to the dismal poverty of the camp itself, a shanty-town of tiny cabins separated with dirt laneways.</p><p>The cabins were threadbare, although their place was the height of luxury compared to other families. Because of the grandparents, they were given one with three rooms. Tezuka’s mother took one, the grandparents, the other, and Tezuka slept on a foldaway cot in the front room. Wind literally blew through the cracks and knotholes in the rough cedar planks. They could see daylight through some of the gaps. Sand and dirt seeped through the flooring. His mother and grandmother constantly scooped out stinkbugs which crept in like saurian creatures from every crack. Neither Kunimitzu, nor his grandfather were so kind. They squashed the ugly things underfoot, wrinkling their noses at the smell.</p><p>The entire cabin was warmed by an old cast iron, wood-burning cookstove that had been salvaged from the ghost towns up in the surrounding mountain passes. It burned their ration of logs and kindling too hot and too fast, and the window had to be left open even during the coldest days of winter because the stove sucked all the oxygen out of the air.</p><p>There was no electricity at first. They had two kerosene lamps and ration cards for the fuel. A galvanized steel tub served as a bath, a washbasin for dishes and the tub for scrubbing clothes. The water had to be hauled in from a pump which brought water up from the lake. They shared this with five other families on their strip. They also shared a public bathhouse with showers and toilets. Otherwise, they had to use the outhouse.</p><p>Chopping and bringing in the firewood was Kunimitzu’s first chore every morning just as the sun came up. He took the huge basin to the pump, filled it, and with the grandmother on one side and Kunimitzu on the other, they would carefully haul it back to the house. This was a difficult job since the tub, once filled, felt like it was full of boulders and if they did not stay aware, the water sloshed over the sides and their clothes were wet for the rest of the day. The two of them had to lift the tub very carefully onto the stove, which was even trickier than hauling it into the house.</p><p>Once, his grandmother’s hand had slipped and the whole tub emptied across the floor.</p><p>“What a foolish old woman I am!” she cried as the deluge soaked their feet and legs.</p><p>Tezuka had enough presence of mind to instantly lift the crate in which their rations were kept and set it on the table before the water seeped in. He looked up to see three sets of wide eyes peering around the sodden room in horror.</p><p>“It isn’t so much of a problem, Obaasan,” he said. “Look, the water is already disappearing.”</p><p>There were so many cracks in the floor, it had almost completely drained.</p><p>“That will help to keep the dust down,” Ayane said, and it did, although the cabin smelled like damp clay for about a month afterward. She helped Kunimitzu haul the water from that point on, insisting that the grandmother’s help to sew and cook was time better spent.</p><p>Kunimitzu’s first big job had been to help seal up the cabin and prepare it for winter. Large canvas sheets from tents discarded by the army provided the first layer, glued to the insides of the cabin with varnish. Then he and Kunihazu packed dry straw into cloth tubes which his mother had roughly stitched from rags salvaged from the church’s rummage bins, and flattened under a board. These were nailed to the wall and covered with long strips of waxed cardboard to which Ayane had stitched salvaged bed sheets from the same rummage bins. The floral and striped fabric also served to brighten the room, making it a very feminine, inviting space.</p><p>Tezuka had to crawl under the cabin to seal the floor, but he didn’t know how to build a subfloor and they couldn’t nail plastic or waxed cardboard under it since, every morning, his mother would scour the floor with sand and rinse it off with water. In the end, he and Kunihazu packed it as full as they could with straw bales. It turned out to be a very snug solution.</p><p>At the northern edge of the camp were some old abandoned fruit trees, the last remaining from an orchard which had been pulled down to build the camp. They hadn’t been tended in over a decade, and the fruit bore the signs of that neglect. The cherries were wormy, the apples and pears were pithy, and the plums and peaches didn’t thrive, but with so many displaced families living in the camp and with all the staples heavily rationed, what little fruit those trees produced brought a fierce competition.</p><p>Kunihazu clipped wands off each tree and set them in jars of water next to the porch, twelve in all. After about a month, the stems were loaded with leaves and blossoms, and there were long straggly roots like spaghetti filling up the jars. He planted them next to the dirt road. Kunimitzu had to haul large rocks up from the lake to surround and protect the small wicks which rose from the earth. Every day, he had to fill the kettle from the pump and water them thoroughly.</p><p>Other families saw what they had done and copied it. Soon there were saplings in front of almost every cabin. The prisoners gave their camp a new name. They called it “The Orchard,” even though it would be several years before any of these saplings would fruit.</p><p>No one had heard from Tezuka Kuniharu since the family was separated at the holding pens in Vancouver. They had been told the men were sent to work camps, but wondered if he was still alive. Terrible rumours of the war had filtered even into this isolated valley, rumours of places called “death camps” where mountains of bodies were buried in mass graves or burned in ovens.</p><p>Some of Kunimitzu’s friends openly scoffed at the stories. There were a group of six of them in all who met with each other. Only five of them were there on that particular day.</p><p>“Don’t say such stupid, crazy things!” Kaoru punched Momo in the arm. “Only lunatics would be that cruel.”</p><p>“Oi, Momo, what’s gotten into you?” Eiji tossed a plum pit at him. “Who needs to hear something like that?”</p><p>“It’s true though!” Arai said, but he had a habit of spreading wild stories that left the others sceptical, “We overheard the Warden’s kid talking about it. He said every time the Nazis invade a country, they clean out all the Jewish people, herd them into boxcars, and--”</p><p>“--Put them into ghettos. Yeah, we know,” Eiji shook his head. “Some of us used to listen to the radio and read stories in the newspapers before we were sent here.”</p><p>“Naw, it’s worse than that--” Momo started.</p><p>“The Warden’s kid? Bobby “Max” Baker?” Kaoru asked, and that killed the conversation right there. He didn’t need to say anything else. Arai’s shoulders deflated. If Bobby Baker had said it, then it was most likely to be a big, fat lie.</p><p>“Sorry, Momo,” he mumbled.</p><p>“Hey! Just passing along the message,” Momoshiro said, throwing his hands in the air.</p><p>Kunimitzu and Takashi held their tongues. They each had their own personal memories of Japan, memories that didn’t make the rumours of death camps seem unbelievable. Taka’s were creased in permanent furrows across his forehead.</p><p>“It’s a crummy story! What kind of sick person thinks up something like that?” Eiji said, pouting. Then he threw a ripe prune-plum into the air and tried to catch it in his mouth, just managing to snag it in his hand when it missed his mouth and rebounded. “When’s Inui going to get here? I’m bored.”</p><p>“Look over there!” Momoshiro pointed, “There’s that new kid.”</p><p>As one, the group turned. Slowly, down one of the dirt tracks between the cluster of tiny cabins, the boy Tezuka had met by the lakeshore just two mornings previously, Fuji Syuusuke, walked with a smaller boy who looked about eleven years-old and must’ve been his brother.</p><p>The smaller boy’s neck was in a brace, and one of his arms was in a sling. There were also some scars on his face.</p><p>“I wonder what took them so long to get sent here?” Momo asked in a voice that didn’t really expect an answer.</p><p>As the two drew closer, Tezuka waved. Fuji’s face lit up even brighter. He spoke to the smaller boy and they walked toward the group.</p><p>“You know him?” Eiji asked, startled.</p><p>“Mmm,” said Tezuka.</p><p>“Tezuka,” Fuji bowed. “This is my younger brother, Yuuta.”</p><p>The younger brother looked shy, and shrank behind his brother. His grey eyes looked so serious and intense compared to the perpetual smile his brother wore.</p><p>“Everyone, this is Fuji Syuusuke,” Tezuka said, and the boys introduced themselves.</p><p>Fuji turned to Tezuka. “I was looking for you.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“Hmm, our neighbours, the old Hiromoto couple, told us that your family had an ingenious method of insulating your home.”</p><p>Tezuka frowned. He had never heard of them.</p><p>“Ah, friends of your grandfather–?”</p><p>“....”</p><p>“Because of Yuuta’s injuries, we had to stay in Vancouver near the hospital and we were so late, by the time we came here, that we had no time to prepare our home for winter, or grow a garden, or plant trees.”</p><p>“I see. Very well, we will pitch in and help.”</p><p>Syuusuke blushed.</p><p>“That is not necessary,” he protested. “It would be enough if you were to show us how--”</p><p>“Don’t be contrary. You can’t possibly manage before winter sets in. There isn’t enough time. Besides, “Eddie” was just complaining about how bored he was anyway, weren’t you, “Eddie”?” Tezuka threw a little mockery in his friend’s direction over the anglicized name he had used when they introduced themselves.</p><p>“Nya?” Eiji looked over, startled. “What are you doing, “Mitch,” volunteering me like that?”</p><p>“Yeah, you have a problem with it?”</p><p>“Not really,” Eiji laughed. He rolled off the large driftwood log on which he had been sunning himself, and landed gracefully on his feet.</p><p>“Tezuka, this is too much,” Fuji murmured, embarrassed.</p><p>“It needs to be done,” the slight frown on Tezuka’s face left no confusion. “So this is what we must do.” </p><p>The look which Fuji sent him, so full of surprise, gratitude and open admiration, left him feeling very pleased with himself.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When the warden strolled through the camp and saw fruit tree saplings planted on so many yards, he pitched a fit. He was about to order them torn out when a prisoner, a retired medical doctor, stepped forward and asked him to reconsider.</p><p>“The rations meet our basic minimum for survival, and under normal conditions, an epidemic of influenza or colds might not be too serious. In this place, however, they could easily become pneumonia or rheumatic fever, and of course, we could also have an outbreak of polio or tuberculosis—”</p><p>The big words did not impress Warden Baker.</p><p>“—Which,” the old man found himself speaking further, “given our proximity to the towns of New Denver and Silverton, could spread to the larger population.”</p><p>That caught his attention.</p><p>“How are a bunch of trees going to stop that from happening?” He demanded to know.</p><p>“Fruit enhances diets. Better diets, more resistance to disease. It would also decrease our reliance on outside supplies.”</p><p>“I see.”</p><p>“It would also be to your advantage to allow gardens. Is that not an ordinary source of food in rural areas?”</p><p>The Warden considered this. After a few minutes, he said, “Fine.”</p><p>He was about to walk away, when the doctor said, “Oh, and another thing--!”</p><p>He froze.</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>“The lake and the creek are good sources for fish. Other sources of meat are so limited.”</p><p>“Now you must think I was born yesterday. I’m not such a greenhorn that I’m going to give prisoners boats. Next, I suppose, you’ll be asking me to provide you all with trucks or let you run around the woods collecting your own firewood.”</p><p>“I was merely going to suggest fishing rods and tackle,” the Sensei broke in at the first pause. “I understand your concerns with the other items. It should be enough if we are allowed to fish from the shore or from a pier.”</p><p> “Very well,” Warden Baker’s irritation drained. “Is that it?”</p><p>“I believe so,” the Sensei replied.</p><p>“Chickens!” An old lady’s voice piped up in an excited half-whisper. “Ask him if we can raise chickens for the eggs.”</p><p>The Warden turned around.</p><p>“Mr … ” he waited for the Sensei to respond.</p><p>“Sakurawa, sir.”</p><p>“Mr. Sakurawa, under these circumstances, it would probably be best if the inmates here set up an advisory council and decided what sort of measures could be undertaken to improve conditions. Prepare a list for me, and I will see what we can do. In turn, we will expect you to report to the families about what we expect in return.”</p><p>Doctor Sakurawa nodded, “The rules, as they presently stand, prohibit us from organizing ourselves or gathering in groups, even for social events.”</p><p>“Yes, I realize that. So this will have to be handled without breaking that rule. In the meantime, the trees can stay and you can fish from the lake. If anyone leaves the camp, however, these privileges will be revoked, instantly and permanently. In this matter, I expect and will receive full cooperation.”</p><p>Dr. Sakurawa bowed. “Understood.” </p><p>The Warden frowned at the bow, but shook it off and walked away.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Even though he hadn’t lived there in over six years, Tezuka still had nightmares about Japan.</p><p>For having the audacity to wonder in the presence of the wrong people whether it would not be better if citizens were taxed according to their affluence, his father, Kuniharu had been declared an enemy of the state. A friend of his grandfather’s had knocked on their door in the middle of the night and told them that a warrant had been issued for their arrest and that they had mere minutes to make a getaway. They fled with a spare set of clothes and whatever could be swept into a carpet bag, their winter coats, hats, scarves and boots thrown over pyjamas and yukatas.</p><p>Kunihazu had hidden them at his dojo under the very noses of the police. At night, they slept in the gymnasium on tatami mats and thin futons. During the day, the five-year-old Kunimitzu was constantly told not to run, not to speak, not to make any noise whatsoever. Their lives depended upon it.</p><p>He couldn’t always help it though. One day, forgetting himself, he chased after a cat in the garden. He wasn’t looking where he was going and ran right into the legs of a police officer.</p><p>“Careful! Cats are nervous creatures. Be gentle ... gentle,” the man peered down at him. He wore an impeccable dress uniform, hair slicked back with ointment, perfectly manicured nails sliding into pristine white gloves. The sight of a young boy running around the garden of the judo dojo caught his interest. “Now whose child are you?”</p><p>Kunimitzu was tongue-tied. Kunihazu was standing right behind the well-dressed officer, glaring down at him. His grandfather was pretending not to know him. He couldn’t think of how to answer the stranger. He didn’t dare answer. Finally, the grandfather spoke for him.</p><p>“He’s the charwoman’s son. She brings him along when she helps my wife with the chores in order to keep him out of mischief. As you can see, it doesn’t always work.”</p><p>“Charwoman!” The elegant stranger lifted an eyebrow, “You have hired servants?”</p><p>“My wife is getting older,” said the judo master.</p><p>“You had no heirs? No daughter-in-laws to help out? No grandchildren?”</p><p>Kunihazu’s face darkened. “My son is dead to me.”</p><p>“And you are happy with this woman, even if she comes with a child?”</p><p>“Her work is satisfactory, if that’s what you mean.”</p><p>“How fortunate you have found such a good servant.” The man busied his fingers with an invisible speck on his sleeve, “My wife is so busy with social engagements these days, that we are faced with the necessity of hiring one. Would your servant be willing to take on an additional household?”</p><p>“That is not for me to say, but I won’t support you in luring her away from my wife, if that is your crafty and devious plan.”</p><p>The officer threw back his head and laughed. “Tezuka-Sensei, you have me all figured out! Very well, I won’t trouble you by snatching away your servants from under your very nose.”</p><p>He reached out and pulled Kunimitzu’s chin up. The boy found it hard to look him directly in the eye.</p><p>“How old are you, boy?”</p><p>Kunimitzu kept silent.</p><p>“Too shy? Why won’t you speak? Are you afraid of me?”</p><p>“Of course he is, Mizuki-san,” Kunihazu growled. “He can recognize a fox when he sees one.”</p><p>This time the officer’s laughter was a little stiffer and more polite.</p><p>“Very well. I can see when the wind is against me. Next time, Sensei!” And with a wave of his white glove, the officer was gone.</p><p>In silence, they watched him leave the yard. Kunimitzu looked up at his grandfather. The old man shook his head, turned and walked away, leaving the youngest Tezuka reeling with the realization of how much more could be communicated without a single word of speech.</p><p> </p><p>The next morning, very early, Kunimitzu saw that his father had not used his tatami and futon. He crept out and searched the gardens, the bathhouse, and the kitchen. Kuniharu was nowhere to be seen. All day the boy waited, silent and curled in a corner of the attic, except when he heard the sound of footsteps. Then he would tiptoe to the window and, hiding in the shadows, peer out only to be disappointed.</p><p>“Mother, when is father coming back?” He tugged at a corner of her kimono.</p><p>She smiled sadly and shook her head.</p><p>“Grandfather, where did father go?” He slid to his knees in front of the old man.</p><p>“Ah, Kunimitzu-chan, look what my brother’s old friend, Morita-shi, brought from Saitomo today: chestnuts! Don’t they look and smell delicious? Let’s bring them to your grandmother to roast with our pork for supper.”</p><p>Kunimitzu decided he must’ve been too noisy. His father must’ve been betrayed by that unguarded moment in the garden.</p><p>Socialists and trade unionists were sent to the gallows, even the women. Kunimitzu had seen the hangings, although his parent’s had tried to spare him, for they were right out in the open, huge public events where the state demonstrated its ruthlessness and might.</p><p>Louts and bullies would jeer and clap. Even before he had become a fugitive on account of his father’s unguarded words, Kunimitzu despised them, ranked them amongst the cowards and murderers, lowest of low.</p><p>After his father disappeared, Kunimitzu resolved that no frivolous sound would leave his lips, no unnecessary motion would propel his body against his will or without his conscious intent. Stillness, silence and circumspection would rule his mind and body from that moment onward.</p><p>In the years after they left Japan, Kunimitzu forgot what had happened. He had been too young to remember much, except the odd image and detail. Kunihazu recounted the tale of their flight and tried to explain the political situation in Japan. Snatches of information were released from his memory, sensory details which burned themselves into his mind: the fresh smell of tatami grass; the feel of its weave under his fingers next to the smooth polished floors of the dojo; the sculptural shapes of trees in vivid reds, blue-greens and yellow-greens; the electrical shimmer of the koi pond. Given structure from his grandfather’s recollections, Tezuka reconstructed his own personal narrative --- for nothing in his adoptive country resembled his old home except the shape and colour of the landscape: coastal mountains covered with evergreens slipping into horizontal planes of water, a stretch of gravel next to a river, eroded boulders covered with moss.</p><p>Kunimitsu’s first cohesive memory was of sailing onboard the Hikoko Maru ocean liner.</p><p>He had flashes of Japan from before that journey, the low-lying farmhouses, rice paddies in a downpour, water streaming off wide bonnets made of woven sea-grasses that hung low over the face and shoulders, and how the mud churned under the workers’ feet. There was one of water-buffalo and a wagon overloaded with furniture trundling down a dirt road, how it had to be maneuvered with great difficulty to the ditch to let a covered pickup truck drive past. When the sun had set behind trees at the old farmhouse, it set off beams of light like spider-lines connecting the leaves.</p><p>His eyes had always seemed set on the horizon back then, watching to see what was coming at them over the hills or over the water. He distinctly remembered towering thunderclouds behind a Jizu Bosatsu shrine to the north turning gold in the sunset, as though the guardian held them back bodily, pushing against them with his very shoulders. Also, things seemed a lot slower, almost as if he dragged an invisible chain at his heels which was attached to things he didn’t understand, couldn’t fathom.</p><p>But mostly, that distant past held an undercurrent propelled by midnight knocks on the door, dead people dangling from ropes, and stupid, coarse faces celebrating this.</p><p>Their ship had sailed out of Yokohama in April of 1936. Canada was supposed to be a haven.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Haven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kunimitzu learned a few things on his ocean voyage, like how the doorsills one had to climb over to go on deck had been built that way to keep particularly large waves of water from sluicing into the interior, and when some doors were opened, the everpresent hum of the ship’s engines grew to a roar. He soon became so accustomed to the rolling swells and the plaintive cries of albatross which chased the ship that he didn’t notice them anymore.</p><p>There were other impressions, like how the Purser, Yukimura-san, came across as a gentleman, whereas the Engineer was bad tempered and vulgar.</p><p>Kunimitsu admired the reflective surfaces of polished brass around the portals and polished wood over all the doors, just as he admired the beautiful, white, clean-pressed uniform that the Purser always wore. The Engineer, by contrast, always looked sweaty, wrinkled, smeared with grease, and smelled like the ship itself, algae mixed with diesel and engine oil.</p><p>The rough steel floors had strange metal divets rising from their surfaces which kept feet from skidding no matter how much rain poured over them, a very practical sort of feature that left one feeling confident and secure. Similarly, the Purser always found something positive to say to people to lift their spirits, especially when their faces were a little green, whereas the Engineer always growled at them to use the buckets if they couldn’t make it to the side of the ship in time.</p><p>Before long, the Engineer came to represent the savage, terrifying elements of manhood in Tezuka’s mind, and the Purser, the purifying effects of civilization.</p><p>Yet, one day, while Kunimitsu was playing hide-&amp;-seek with that kid, Oishi, the ship’s doctor’s son, he heard the Purser sneer to another passenger about the manners of steerage brats.</p><p>“Indeed!” the other passenger replied, staring directly at Kunimitsu.</p><p>His family wasn’t steerage. They might have all shared a room, a narrow upper berth for his mother and a small murphy-bed for his grandparents, and he may have slept on a thin futon propped up on one of the trunks, but they had a room which put them one-up over steerage. And, if he had been steerage, then what, exactly, was the matter with that? He was still Kunimitzu, a boy playing with another boy very much like himself. He was still a Tezuka, raised with integrity and dignity.</p><p>It was the first time Kunimitsu was ever struck with the realization that some men judged each other in terms of rank, basing worth on things like where and how well they were accommodated within a ship, as though they had much choice in the matter. As the Engineer strolled past, his eyes glanced sideways at the boy. Tezuka did not betray a single thought or feeling.</p><p>Later that night, the Engineer called him over to where a group of the sailors were taking a break, smoking, draining bottles of beer. He handed over a shiny new penny whistle.</p><p>“Here’s how you play the thing,” the man explained in his gruff voice, and showed him the fingering for Hashimoto’s Okashi-to-Musume.</p><p>“Aw, Sanada-chan, don’t teach the kid that stuff. He’s going to America, aren’t you, boy? They aren’t listening to that there. You want Pennies from Heaven … Tommy Dorsey, Louis Armstrong,” the young sailor sang, “Love is now the stardust of yesterday.”</p><p>“Canada,” Kunimitzu corrected him.</p><p>“Sorry?” The sailor laughed.</p><p>“We are disembarking in Vancouver,” Kunimitzu looked up at him, his eyes far too serious and wise for his seven years. “Not Honolulu. Not San Francisco. Not Seattle.”</p><p>“Don’t pay him any mind,” the Engineer growled and held out his hand. “Here, this is called a handshake. It’s what you do when you meet strangers in Vancouver. Nope, it ain’t necessary to bow. Or kneel. You won’t ever have to do that again.”</p><p>This was all beyond Kunimitzu, who walked away from that encounter with a bright new penny-whistle, a brand new custom called the handshake, and a strong sense of the untrustworthy nature of appearances instead.</p><p>But what did the Engineer mean by that he would never have to bow again? What was wrong with bowing and kneeling? He flexed and curled his fingers, staring at them curiously, marveling at how his palm still tingled from the sensation of the Engineer’s handshake. How could it be respectful to touch another person’s hand, let alone grip it so firmly?</p><p>Without realizing it, the Purser and the Engineer had switched polarities in Kunimitzu’s estimation at about the mid-Pacific mark. This was long before he realized that the Engineer had a greater burden in carrying the ship’s passengers safely across the ocean, much more than a Purser’s.</p><p>The memory of the journey up the Fraser River to Agassiz mostly disappeared in a haze of mountains under smoky clouds so that he couldn’t tell how high they rose, and mists floating over the river. Clouds shredded themselves against stands of towering cedar, massive booms of lumber pulled behind tugs on the water, and strange little cement-coloured houses with pebble-dash stucco and peaked roofs dotted the shore here and there, next to groups of pylons. The train stopped at the ferry landing at Fort Langley. It was growing dark when they crossed the river and were met by a man whose face Kunimitzu could barely remember at all, whose appearance was completely different.</p><p>“Is this my son?” The man had spoken, his voice thick with emotion.</p><p>He rushed forward and hugged Kuniharu around his waist, pressing his face into his firm stomach. The sudden disappearance and absence of two years was forgiven and forgotten in the wave of happiness and contentment which swept over the boy.</p><p>They bounced the remaining distance to the berry farm in the back of the International pickup truck, covered with a tarp. The grandfather and grandmother rode in the front.</p><p>Kunimitsu looked up at his mother’s face which, even in the pitch black of the foggy night, seemed to glow from her own inner light. Ayane had always smiled, no matter how difficult or undignified her situation seemed to be, but now her smile had serenity. Years of care seemed to have lifted from it. He snuggled up against her side and fell asleep.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The next morning began in the softest, most comfortable bed he had ever slept in, under a thick cotton sheet and woolen blankets with a big down-filled pillow. The top and the foot of the bed had a strange cage-like grill fashioned of cast iron painted white. Kunimitsu wondered what its purpose was. He could hear someone rattling a stove, he presumed in the kitchen. The air was fresh and filled with the tang of wood smoke and cedar. Strange birdsong warbled and chirruped in the fields and woods beyond his window, inviting him to run and play. When he moved, the bed made strange music, like a dozen Kokyu fiddles sawing out of tune. A quick peek under the bed revealed a lattice of springs and wires. It made the bed pleasantly bouncy, almost like the rocking sensation of the boat. His futon felt so sturdy and rooted to the earth compared to this swaying, singing bed but, even if it was unfamiliar, he liked it.</p><p>He quickly pulled on his knee-socks, knickerbockers held up with suspenders, a white shirt and pullover, and made his way to the kitchen.</p><p>“So, you are my little man,” the stranger who was his father declared. “At last I can--”</p><p>His voice broke off, as though any further words would result in an unseemly emotional display.</p><p>“Come with me,” the man beckoned. They walked out a screendoor which screeched and squawked and banged shut. A tall woodshed had been built at the back. There was a massive stump, an axe, and shavings all around, and a marvelous smell of wooddust and pitch. Kuniharu reached into the gloom and pulled out two fishing poles and a basket. “Let’s see what we can catch for breakfast.”</p><p>Kuniharu led him through the berry fields, “I --- no, we grow strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries for market. Some of our crates get sent to the jam factory in Agassiz. Others are shipped upriver to Vancouver where they are sent around the world.”</p><p>Kunimitsu stole sidelong looks at his father’s face. His shoulders were thrown back. His jaw was tilted up. His eyes shone. He said “we” as though the family had been as hard at work beside him in the fields during the long years they had been separated. The man was proud of his accomplishments, proud enough to treat them as their accomplishments. Kunimitsu threw his own shoulders back, lifted his jaw and opened his eyes until everything seemed brighter and clearer.</p><p>Kuniharu cut a path for them through a dale of bracken and fireweed, and under the cool, dark shadows of the evergreens. The canopy seemed to drink up sound. Kunimitsu had never experienced such quiet. Neither of them felt inclined to break it with idle chatter, and the boy was not in the habit of it anyway. They skittered down a rocky embankment, past moss covered boulders and forest duff so thick, they sank in past their ankles. Finally, by a pool next to a brook, they cast their lines.</p><p>Kuniharu demonstrated how to swing and jig the fly across the surface of the pool in imitation of an insect. Before long, they each had their catch, two large rainbows. The father showed him how to gut, scrape off scales and fins and debone the fish. Then he took a huge pat of butter, melted it in a huge cast iron pan over their wood stove and taught Kunimitzu how to fry the fish until the flesh started to change colour and separate. It was so different from using the hibachi to grill it.</p><p>Ayana came in from the garden with a huge bowl of raspberries. Kuniharu showed her how they set the table in the west, with forks and knives instead of chopsticks, and great large plates instead of bowls, although he took out some bowls as well. He also pulled out a loaf of freshly baked white bread, a gift from a kind neighbour, and sliced it for their breakfast.</p><p>They ate the fried fish, berries with evaporated milk and sugar, bread with butter and jam from the factory in Agassiz, and drank bitter tea made from teabags. The boy had never eaten salmon before. Its flavour was even stronger than tuna belly. He loved it, but he couldn’t bear the tea, not even after his father sweetened it with that rich tinned milk and almost a tablespoon of sugar.</p><p>Afterward, when they had eaten their fill, Tezuka mimicked his father by pulling his chair away from the table and stretching his legs. It felt so good to be reunited as a family like that. It felt good to be in a country where they were safe and free.</p><p>“In this country, you can say whatever you like,” His father had said. “You don’t have to be afraid of anyone!”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The first winter in the prison camp, they nearly starved. The welfare remittance they received wasn’t nearly enough for the supplies they needed. If it weren’t for truckloads of vegetables, fruit, flour and milk brought up by the pacifist groups, like the Doukhabors and Quakers who lived in the area, they would never have made it.</p><p>There was no school, although some of the older people organized tutoring sessions. Kunihazu resumed teaching judo, although his body became frail with the poor heating and diet. Not every Canadian supported the government’s decision to intern Japanese-Canadians. Of these citizens, the church groups had the most clout. They agitated for better conditions and, finally, were permitted to set up schools.</p><p>The tennis racquets, balls and net were donated as Christmas gifts for the prison camp children from the same church which ran the school. Every boy received a tennis racquet and a ball, just as every girl got a miniature bakelite tea service whether they wanted it or not. A net was set up on the exercise yard, and the girls drank lots of hot water, since tea, milk and sugar were all rationed. The square schoolhouse served as an excellent backboard for stroke practice, although the shiplap siding was a nuisance until a person learned to aim their strokes with pinpoint accuracy.</p><p>At first, Tezuka resisted the gift, his bile rising at the unfairness of their situation and the way they were treated. He rejected charity, concerned that the easiness of accepting such gifts would undermine his strength and autonomy, even he understood it was sensible to accept it. This concern evaporated when Kunihazu received a cheque for $35.00 from the sale of Kuniharu’s farm properties in Agassiz, property that brought them fifty times that much income annually. The results of their hard work had been stolen from them.</p><p>After that, the only concern that Tezuka experienced over receiving aid was that it was generally useless to him.</p><p>For nearly eight months, the racquet and ball stood behind the stove, next to the box of kindling, as though waiting to be tossed on the fire. There was precious little time to play games in any case, so much preparation was required for the onslaught of the next winter.</p><p>One day, however, his mother reached the limit of her patience. She seized him by the elbow with one hand, and grabbed the racket and ball with the other and shooed him off their porch.</p><p>“Go! Work it off. Don’t come back in until you can smile again.”</p><p>His friends were busy with their lessons and activities.</p><p>Tezuka found himself beside the school, scuffing the toe of his boots against the cracks in the blacktop, ears tuned to the shouts, laughs and whistles of the older boys rallying around the net. He had tried to join in on their games once, when it had been kick-the-can instead of tennis. A huge, tough-talking boy with crooked teeth had shoved him aside and was told off by Yamato …</p><p>Yamato!</p><p>The first day Tezuka had arrived in the prison camp, he was met by Yamato, a tall, lean and graceful boy with thick glasses and hair so black it seemed to absorb light.</p><p>The bus-ride had been harrowing on a narrow dirt road which twisted around hairpin curves and up switchbacks next to drops of several hundreds of feet down sheer rock bluffs into the lake. They were dumped at the side of the road with all the worldly possessions they were allowed to bring --- no more than they could carry --- bundled up in suitcases, wicker baskets and rucksacks, and no instructions as to what they were supposed to do, or where they were supposed to go.</p><p>In the sunlight with puffy clouds scudding across blue skies, the place seemed spectacular, all massive cedars growing right up to the sides of the roads, and rugged mountain peaks which reached beyond the tree-line, and a sparkling lake. Squirrels and chipmunks chattered at them, and an osprey circled and keened far above.</p><p>It also seemed to be completely uninhabited. The younger children, especially the girls, started to cry for fear that they would have to scratch out their existence from this raw wilderness.</p><p>After sitting there for over three-quarters of an hour, however, it became clear that they had been forgotten or weren’t expected yet. So Kunimitzu volunteered to walk up the road in the direction where the bus had continued to find out what was going on.</p><p>He was met about halfway to the camp by Yamato.</p><p>“I thought I heard a bus,” were the first words with which he was greeted.</p><p>When Tezuka explained what happened, the older boy shook his head. “All he had to do was make a 5-minute detour and you would’ve been let off right at the encampment. Just didn’t want to do it for a buncha Japs, lousy sleazebag. Let’s go back and give the rest a leg up.”</p><p>During the mile-long hike, Yamato had kept up a running commentary. Tezuka was amazed at the quantity of information he shared, everything from how the place was organized and maintained to who to know and who to avoid.</p><p>“Take the white boys from New Denver, not like the rough bunch from Silverton or Sandon. Those were mining towns, although now there’s almost nothing left of them. Anyway, if we had met these boys on our own terms, we probably could’ve gotten along. Since most of them are with the prison industry now, it’s a different story. Watch out for them, especially the Warden’s kid, Bobby “Max” Baker. He’s bad news.</p><p>“Actually, now you have to be careful of everyone, even your own friends. But him, especially.”</p><p>“And you?” Tezuka shot a keen look at the older boy, “Why are you telling me these things?”</p><p>“Gosh, it’s still survival of the fittest, still the law of the jungle! --- But it sure makes things a lot easier and more pleasant if we keep an eye out for each other, right?” Yamato had stopped and put a hand on Kunimitzu’s shoulder, forcing him to look him straight in the eye. “What do you think, Tezuka-chan? Are you up for it?”</p><p>Tezuka had snorted. What did he mean by talking about such things? Talk meant nothing. Not next to deeds. He didn’t answer the older boy because, by then, they had reached the abandoned bus passengers and Yamato started explaining things to all the others. But he caught Yamato’s eye before they went their separate ways, and he gave him a little nod to show that he understood.</p><p>True to his word, after that one incident, Yamato offered no further protection from the big boys. Tezuka had gotten the message --- too young, too short, too weak, in the way, in danger of being run over and, so, a nuisance. It didn’t really bother him since there was a limit to how old, big and strong the boys could grow before they were shipped out of the camp, a slow and steady attrition where his physical rank became obvious as the older ones left and there were no newcomers to replace them. Still, he furtively watched them at play, revelling in the response and flow of their muscles, the awesome height of their jumps, velocity of their acceleration, power of their limbs, and grace of their agility, wondering if he would ever meet them, determined at a subconscious level to surpass them.</p><p>This did not help him with his present situation, however, which was alone and at a loss for what to do.</p><p>Someone, probably one of the grandmothers, had seen to plant flowers in a narrow strip around the school foundation, common annuals in yellow, orange, red and brown that thrived in poor soil, he didn’t know the names. The struggling plants were too small and too few to do more than add a few bright spots of colour to tamp down the dust and only served to draw attention to the building’s graceless mass. One side of the building had no flowers growing on it. That was the place which worked for stroke practice.</p><p>At first, he sulkily bounced the ball on top of the racquet, determined not to give in to the seduction of play. After awhile, when it became obvious that nobody even noticed, let alone admired or cared about his sacrifice, he ventured to lob the ball against the schoolhouse siding and found it shooting off in unpredictable directions due to the spacing of the wood or the rough asphalt below. This was frustrating enough to be a challenge and he met it with all the obstinacy and pent-up rage that the camp and its conditions pushed upon him. He would not let the racquet and ball defeat him, just as he would not let the warden’s son or the older boys defeat him. So he served and chased and volleyed. He jumped and fell, scraped the skin off his knees, elbows and the palms of his hands. He bruised his thigh and shoulder during a rough tumble, but he played and played until the curfew lights came on and he had to return home.</p><p>In all, he had played about six hours straight and, what was more --- although he would die before he admitted it to anyone --- he had thoroughly enjoyed himself. When he leapt, he felt like he was flying. When he ran, he felt like a powerful animal, a tiger or a cavalry charger. The ball carried the sins of those who oppressed him and he was thrilled every time he connected his racquet with it, smashing, beating, repelling it from his body, racing against the rebound, grunting with the force of his movements. The wind against his face, flowing through his hair and clothing, and the heightened pulse flowing through his veins invigorated and satisfied him like no other activity.</p><p>Oh yes, he was going to play tennis!</p><p>The next day, his mother wrapped a jar of soup, some ripe plums and two biscuits in a large tea towel and chased him outside again.</p><p>“What about the plums?” Tezuka asked. “Don’t you need me to pick the rest?”</p><p>“I already picked them.”</p><p>“When?”</p><p>“While you were at school. Do you think I’m useless? You go and have some fun, Kunimitzu-chan. There will be ample time for you to act like an adult when you grow up.”</p><p>So Tezuka found himself back at the school. He had been hitting the ball against the boards for about an hour when a soft, almost feminine voice addressed him, “You’re getting quite good at that.”</p><p>He caught the ball in his hand on its next rebound and turned to face Fuji. He didn’t know what to say and stood there awkwardly, breathing heavily from his workout, pushing the glasses back up to the bridge of his nose.</p><p>“How would you like to try hitting it with me over a net?” Fuji asked.</p><p>“The older boys staked out the court already.” Tezuka replied. “Yamato and his friends.”</p><p>“No need to bother with them,” Fuji jumped to his feet. “I thought if we rigged my mother’s clothesline up between those two old cedars next to the beach, there’s a nice patch of hardpacked dirt there. It’s more even than the compound.”</p><p>“Ah, but there wouldn’t be anything to stop the ball from going under the line.”</p><p>“No. Does that really have to be a problem?”</p><p>“How will we tell where the boundaries of the court are?”</p><p>“We can scratch some lines, can’t we?”</p><p>They could, so they did and, again, Fuji showed that same unrestrained delight that caught him so off guard the first time they had met, like Tezuka had bestowed a great favour upon him. But playing Fuji was not the same as playing invisible, faceless forces that the ball had come to represent in his imagination. He found it difficult to return the ball when it was volleyed by someone he really liked. After about half an hour of unsatisfying play that mostly resulted in Fuji’s serves being missed or whacked out of bounds, the slighter boy came up to the clothesline.</p><p>“What’s going on?” He scowled at Tezuka.</p><p>Tezuka looked at his feet. Fuji’s hand reached over and grasped his arm roughly, at exactly the place where he had fallen the day before and bruised it. Tezuka couldn’t help it. He winced.</p><p>“What’s this?” Fuji lifted the cuff of Tezuka’s short-sleeved shirt and saw the dark purple skin below. “You are hurt? You’ve been playing me while you were injured?”</p><p>“It doesn’t matter that much.”</p><p>“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?” Fuji hand snaked to the collar of Tezuka’s shirt and twined itself there. “I never wanted this. Do I deserve so little respect?”</p><p>Tezuka felt embarrassment gush across his face.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to play with you. There was no other meaning to it.”</p><p>“You just wanted to play with me?” Fuji looked puzzled.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“I am a very good player.</p><p>“I can see that.”</p><p>“No, you don’t. I used to practice at a club where retired professional athletes would teach. I miss having strong opponents. I thought you were up for it. That’s why I challenged you.”</p><p>“Ah, but I just started yesterday. This is the first time I’ve ever played.”</p><p>“Your first time!”</p><p>“It’s very different than hitting the ball against the side of the school.”</p><p>Fuji snorted, shaking his head with disbelief.</p><p>“Will you teach me, Fuji?”</p><p>He opened his eyes to stare at Tezuka while he considered this. “I don’t want to give away all my techniques. I worked hard to learn them. It is my own style of tennis, and it wouldn’t necessarily suit you.”</p><p>Tezuka nodded. He felt disappointed. Finally he had found something in common with this graceful, beautiful boy which they could do together, but the other boy was telling him he wasn’t good enough. He could understand why someone who had received professional-level training wouldn’t want to play with a beginner.</p><p>He rose to his feet and turned to leave. “Thank you for playing with me, Fuji.”</p><p>“Wait!”</p><p>There was something a more at work than disappointment for Tezuka, a pang that made his heart sore. He didn’t know that that was about. It was painful to face the other boy again and hear what he had to say.</p><p>“If your friends agree, then we can set up our own club and I could teach all of you. That way, you wouldn’t be playing just against me, but against each other as well. I would do it that way.”</p><p>A rare smile swept over Tezuka’s face, one that softened his eyes only. If Fuji wanted a tennis club, he would make one.</p><p> </p><p>Around that time, Tezuka started to dream about Fuji.</p><p>The first time that he dreamed, it was of lying in bed with his arms curled around his sleeping friend. He woke up warm and comfortable, certain that the weight of the blanket against his thigh was the solidity of Fuji’s thighs, the dream had seemed so real. He cuddled deeper into the pillow, and as the daylight slowly dispersed the haze of images and sensations, he wondered why it felt so lovely to dream of him like that. The only reason he could think of was that he liked him and wanted to be closer.</p><p>Although his grandparents shared their bed, and sometimes the tiniest children in the camp --- those too young even to go to school yet --- cuddled each other, nobody ever displayed affection in public. Nor did they sleep together. It was an unspoken taboo. Tezuka wondered why? It seemed like an odd thing to be ashamed and clam-mouthed over; what was so strange about sharing a bed with a friend that one loved and respected anyway? And why did no one ever speak of it?</p><p>Every night before he went to sleep after that, he imagined Fuji lifting the covers and sliding into bed next to him in the dark. He sensed what the feel and smell of his hair would be like if he tucked his cheek against that silky mass as he wrapped his arms around his friend’s body. The sound of Fuji’s alto voice soft and low with a goodnatured laugh and a contented sigh, was the last thing to resonate in his imagination before he drifted off.</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Delusion of Safety</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The tennis club was an amazing success. Tezuka could hardly believe how his friends had responded. Each of them had their own particular method and talents, too, and this seemed to fill Fuji with no end of delight. The variety made their matches and practices adventurous and fun. The sight of Fuji’s face lit by an honest smile of glee in turn delighted Tezuka and he resolved to overcome all the flaws in his game in order to meet his friend on court as an equal. On top of his matches with his friends, he would practice strokes for two or three hours against the schoolhouse wall. His abilities grew in leaps and bounds, although he hadn’t yet figured out how to work around Syuusuke’s signature triple-counters.</p><p>It seemed inevitable that the sight of so many Japanese-Canadian kids enjoying themselves would attract negative attention one day. Most of the time, they were segregated from the other townsfolk in New Denver. They went to different schools. They weren’t allowed to use the same stretch of beach. They didn’t play in the public park. They would run into each other on occasion, however, because there were some services they had to share --- like the post office.</p><p>Bobby “Max” Baker had been a goad and a bully for as long as Tezuka had been held at the camp. It was at these times that Bobby made a special point of harassing them.</p><p>He couldn’t help but notice the tennis racquets. All the Japanese-Canadian boys had taken to carrying them and since tennis was one of the phys-ed electives at his school --- whereas they clearly had only a single net and no apparent formal training --- he decided it was worth it to challenge them. He thought it would be a great way to put them in their place with his superior skills and training. He never anticipated that someone of Fuji’s ability would respond. In fact, he laughed when the small, fine-boned boy accepted the challenge.</p><p>“Let’s make this more interesting,” Fuji had said. “Shall we turn it into a doubles match?”</p><p>“Doubles?” Bobby scowled. “Why would I want to do that?”</p><p>“It would give more of us an opportunity to play. We don’t usually get a chance to meet new opponents.”</p><p>Bobby grunted. He didn’t really want to have another person on his team.</p><p>“You all receive lessons at school, don’t you?” Fuji smiled. “That must be so nice. I wish we had an advantage like that.”</p><p>This reminder worked. What chance could the Japanese-Canadian boys have against these larger, more powerful and better trained boys? Bobby whistled at one of his constant companions, a thin boy with a sly expression on his face. The boy looked like he wanted to argue, but one glance at the thunderous expression on the Warden’s son’s face quelled that rebellion.</p><p>The match took place on the prison compound, since the Japanese-Canadian boys were not allowed to use the courts in New Denver’s public park. To Tezuka’s dismay, Fuji accepted Kawamura as his doubles partner. He started to object but Fuji stopped him with a hand on his arm.</p><p>“I need Taka for this fight,” he said in Japanese. “He is a power-player.”</p><p>“I can handle this guy.”</p><p>“Not without injury,” Fuji’s eyes opened and he gazed directly into Tezuka’s. “You already take too much onto yourself. Do you think I haven’t noticed? I won’t have it. I won’t let you.”</p><p>“I want to be your partner. I want to play with you.”</p><p>Fuji got the same dumbfounded, happy expression on his face that he had when Tezuka first admitted this. Then he gave Tezuka one of his sweetest smiles and said, “One day. Maybe not how you expect.”</p><p>At this hint of a promise, Tezuka conceded to Taka, but he wasn’t pleased.</p><p>As he knew it would, and as all the Japanese-Canadian boys knew it would, the match went overwhelmingly in favour of the Fuji-Kawamura doubles team. Bobby wasn’t a completely incompetent player, but he relied on the heaviness of his spins and lacked the agility and speed to respond to Fuji’s volleys or adapt to his counters. His partner was better in this respect, but they were both hamstrung when Fuji dropped his Hakugei on them. They were also poorly coordinated as a team. Bobby didn’t like to share the limelight and wouldn’t let his partner have many chances. To make up for his shortcomings, Bobby increased the strength of his smashes.</p><p>It was a clear autumn day. Killing frosts had already struck during the early mornings, even in that protected spot next to the lake, so the air was brisk and bright --- perfect weather for a game.</p><p>Tezuka was entranced by Fuji’s movements, so graceful and elegant. He moved like the wind, as though floating. Colour rose high on his cheeks, partly from the cool temperatures, partly from the excitement of playing. His style was to use his opponents’ energies against them, counterpunching. It was a brilliant style, requiring enormous intelligence and concentration.</p><p>There was one particularly strong smash where Fuji wasn’t in position to respond with Higuma Otoshi.</p><p>“Let me take this one,” Taka pushed Fuji out of the way and hit the ball with all his considerable strength. It shot back into Bobby’s court.</p><p>“Taka!” Fuji’s voice was full of dismay.</p><p>The force required to return that strike was so powerful, that Fuji’s wrist would’ve snapped under its weight.</p><p>The racquet, under the force of Taka’s return shot, spun out of Bob’s hands. It bounced on its side, just as he leapt after it. Being a large boy without much grace, he ended up putting his foot down on the edge and breaking the wood frame. Bobby picked it up and groaned in disappointment as the splintered wood drooped around the handle, still tied to it with strings of cat-gut.</p><p>“Sonuvabitch! Completely ruined.” He stood there, cursing and staring in disbelief for awhile. Then he looked around at the gaping bystanders until he saw what he wanted, a tennis racquet in the hands of a kid --- a kid who was too small to object if someone took it away from him, or at least too small to defend himself if he did object. The kid was Fuji Yuuta.</p><p>“Hey, you there, gimme that!” His huge fingers curled and waggled in expectation.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Oooh!” Bobby Max’s two cronies crooned derisively.</p><p>“It’s mine,” Yuuta answered. “I’m not giving it to you.”</p><p>“Listen, mouthy brat, you’ll do as you’re told ’cause I say so, and I’m telling you I want that,” Bobby reached over to grab Yuuta’s racquet out of his hands.</p><p>Syuusuke leapt in front of Yuuta and, threw his arms outward to block and protect his brother. For a moment, everyone froze in astonishment, this was such a clear change in the way things usually happened. Usually, if Bobby Max wanted something, Bobby Max got it and, if anyone had a problem with it, they got their face smashed in and he ended up taking it from them anyway.</p><p>Bob lifted a fist automatically.</p><p>Tezuka’s reactions, also, were entirely without thought. All his life he had trained in judo at his grandfather’s side to the point where these actions were reflexive. By seizing his opponent’s wrist, he deflected the strike from Fuji. Then, with a light spin, he pushed on Baker’s back, which added enough force to the enraged boy’s lunge in order to knock him off-balance, almost onto his face. Tezuka twisted the wrist up behind his back, between his shoulder-blades, pinning him in a half-Nelson. He tested the boy’s pain tolerance by tugging upward lightly on Bob’s wrist and heard a loud yelp which was just as much of surprise as of pain.</p><p>The boy with the thin, sneering face gave a nervous laugh.</p><p>“What do you want us to do, Bobby?”</p><p>He looked around at the dozens of boys thronged around them. These were not the kind of odds that favoured his style of fight --- too many potential opponents, too many of whom were bigger and stronger, in too public a venue, with the main fighter incapacitated. Bob was about to order a melee, when Tezuka gave another little tug on his arm.</p><p>“OW! Ow! Stop, hold off you--!” He started to curse. His friends pulled back.</p><p>Tension shot like a charge of static electricity across the surface of Tezuka’s skin.</p><p>He stuck his foot in the small of Bob’s back. He let go of the bully’s arm and shoved him with his foot, face-first onto the ground.</p><p>“Why, you--!” The boy started, clambering to his feet.</p><p>A presence rose behind Tezuka; a stout, bracing hand fell on his shoulder; and warmth flowed out of the hand, through his chest, down into the pit of his stomach. He glanced up to see Yamato, his soft, tenebrous black hair lifting in the breeze like raven wings. From the corners of his eyes, he could see other older boys draw near, although not too close. They were poised to jump in if they had to, but held off.</p><p>The crafty look left Baker’s face.</p><p>“This is none of your business,” he barked at Yamato.</p><p>“This guy is just going home,” Yamato squeezed Tezuka’s shoulder. His voice was casual, like they were discussing a replacement part for a piston engine.</p><p>“Not before he settles up with me. Who do you think you are?”</p><p>“Sshh, Bobby, your dad’s coming,” the thin, sly-looking kid plucked at Baker’s elbow. Sure enough, the Warden and two guards were striding across the compound toward them.</p><p>Tezuka could see the alarm flash across his face and wondered why the boy would be scared of his own father. Unlike his Japanese counterparts, he had all that authority and power on his side. Still, it was clear from the slightly hunted look on his face and the way his body drew into itself like he was getting ready to run, that the situation had made him very nervous. For some reason Baker couldn’t count on having his father back him up, which meant that he didn’t feel clear about being in the right.</p><p>“Pretend that you’re limping,” Yamato hissed in Tezuka’s ear.</p><p>“What?” Tezuka answered. He never was any good at pretend games. Make belief went against his literal view of the world. It dipped into that dangerous terrain where men lost their reason and self-control.</p><p>“Just do it, okay? We’re in a fix here.”</p><p>“What seems to be the problem?” Warden Baker drew up, the two other guards with their shotguns ready standing in a phalanx formation behind him.</p><p>“The boys were just playing a match of tennis. This boy hurt his ankle when he tripped and fell,” Yamato smoothly explained. “The others were giving him a hand up.”</p><p>Tezuka felt a hundred eyes turned toward him in expectation of something he could not do, and it made his head swim unpleasantly. His throat clenched and he felt an unpleasant heaviness in his stomach, as though he were about to be sick.</p><p>“Is that so?” The Warden appraised Yamato coolly. “We’ll just have to take a look then, won’t we?”</p><p>Then he glanced at his son, who was swallowing hard and getting ready to muster an argument, but something strange flashed over his face. It passed so quickly that Tezuka could not catch its meaning, but almost looked as though the father detested his own child, and then the Warden turned his fearsome attention back upon him.</p><p>“You, roll down your sock!”</p><p>Tezuka trembled under the order. The look of shame and guilt Tezuka felt sure was branded across his face had to be an automatic reflex from being kept in a war camp and treated like criminals. He had no choice but to obey. He shot a look of sheer panic at Fuji, who gave him a soft little smile and a barely perceptible nod of encouragement. It worked. Tezuka swallowed, leaned down and did as the official asked.</p><p>There were a few hisses of shock and revulsion, some muttered words of sympathy. The leg was mottled dark purple and blue, not from any make-belief tumbles within the past five minutes, but from his real life adventures trying to master tennis. There were a few clotted scrapes and scratches there for good measure. The explanation was simple enough. Every day he fought against his limits and the battle took its toll in bruises and blood and stretched, aching muscle. As messy-looking injuries went, they were pretty impressive, with the added bonus that they didn’t really bother Tezuka. They didn’t really hurt that much. They simply looked so much worse than they felt.</p><p>And everyone was so dazzled and impressed by the extent of them. At this thought, a very strange happened. Instead of feeling sick and afraid, Tezuka felt the situation had become impossibly funny. He couldn’t help it. Hilarity burbled up from the pit of his stomach.</p><p>He fought with the silly grin that seemed to want to plaster itself across his face. He kept his eyes on the ground so no one could see them laughing. The giggles that would surge out from his solar plexus couldn’t be helped, but they were soundless. He had learned to curb his voice to that extent. Still, he covered his lips with a couple of fingers to make sure, and his shoulders shook uncontrollably.</p><p>The Warden kept his eye trained on the silently laughing Tezuka.</p><p>He could feel disbelief and disapproval radiating off of Yamato, but couldn’t do a thing to stop himself.</p><p>“Obviously, this is very upsetting for him,” Yamato explained further, setting off another wave in the younger boy’s body. Tezuka’s eyes had started to water with the strain of subduing his fits of laughter. His appearance could be reinterpreted and misconstrued to look like he was overcome with misery, but the energy was all wrong, which made it even funnier.</p><p>All he had done was organize a pastime for some of the younger boys, which resulted in the misfortune of drawing Bobby “Max” Baker’s malice toward him. He had done nothing to Bob or his friends, but he also knew, all too well, that didn’t necessarily mean anything. This was not about fairness or who was in the right. It was too ridiculous.</p><p>The only ones who looked perfectly calm and detached in that situation were Yamato and Fuji. Everyone else looked panicky. That was even funnier.</p><p>After a couple of loud sniffs, Tezuka concentrated on making himself as insignificant as the environment around them, part of the scenery. His heart was yammering in his ears. Maybe if he thought hard enough about dissolving into the landscape, the Warden would lose interest.</p><p>“Take him home.” Warden Baker ordered Yamato, signalling to Tezuka to cover up his leg again.</p><p>The older boy reached under Tezuka’s arm to commence the fireman’s hold, when the Warden caught his chin in his fingers as though trying to communicate something to Yamato through sheer force of personality alone.</p><p>“We’ve all managed to get along here without any problems, haven’t we?” He finally said.</p><p>“That’s right,” Yamato agreed.</p><p>As Warden Baker abruptly turned and left, Tezuka could tell it shook Yamato up. That had an unexpectedly sobering effect on Tezuka.</p><p>“Bobby, it’s time for you to head home and finish up your homework,” the Warden called over his shoulder.</p><p>“Find out where that guy lives,” Tezuka heard the boy order his friends under his breath.</p><p>Tezuka wanted to learn more about what had bothered Yamato. There was something going on that he didn’t understand and it bothered him, but the older boy refused to respond to Tezuka’s enquiring look. He marched Tezuka home, lips tightly sealed, annoyance or some other tension seething off his muscles and the closed expression on his face.</p><p>Tezuka carried on the pretence of serious leg injuries until he was sure that Warden Baker and the guards couldn’t see them any longer, then he shook off Yamato’s arm. Yamato spun him around, saw and parried his judo deflection, and push him back against the side of Tezuka’s cabin.</p><p>“The fight with Baker was unavoidable,” he said. “You protected your friend. But --- you have to consider the larger picture here. He’s a mean kid who doesn’t let things go, stubborn as a mule and not half as intelligent. He’s got some strange kind of difficulty with his father --- I could tell you noticed that --- but, you see, because of that difficulty, once you hurt his pride in front of his father, you can’t win. He’ll keep up and keep up and keep up with the sneak attacks until you’re done for and he’s satisfied. Do you understand?”</p><p>No, Tezuka didn’t. An image flashed into his mind of stupid, laughing faces --- faces like Bob Baker’s --- and bodies hanging from ropes, and somehow these images had something to do with Japan. They filled him with sadness and fear and something about the danger of his own speech. He found himself bereft of words, unable to say anything to Yamato.</p><p>This silence was not good. When their land and businesses were stolen from them, the Japanese-Canadians complied silently, fearfully, without objection. Perhaps if they had been less compliant, Tezuka thought, less timid, their families would not have been ripped apart.</p><p>Tezuka shook his head angrily and butted against Yamato’s hand. Yamato pushed back.</p><p>“And another thing,” he said, “I don’t know what this little competition is that you’ve got going with Fuji Syuusuke, but it’s time for you to smarten up.”</p><p>Competition! Tezuka stared at Yamato warily. He got that one wrong. The older boy wasn’t always right by any means.</p><p>“Don’t underestimate me,” the older boy said. “I’ve seen your legs. I can tell those bruises are getting bigger. That’s dead tissue. Dead tissue turns septic. Ever heard of gangrene? All those soldiers whose legs they’ve got to amputate? We don’t have the medical services here for pointless injuries. So, cut it out with the endless brutal practice regimens until your injuries recover. Let them heal.</p><p>Yamato was no doctor. What right did he have to be handing out medical advice? Tezuka struggled harder against the larger, stronger boy.</p><p>“I mean it, Tezukachan. Don’t make me tell your mother on you!”</p><p>That did it. Tezuka stopped, infuriated. Now he couldn’t speak because he was so angry. What did Yamato know? Even so, nothing would let him heap disappointment onto his mother’s head. It would be a miracle if she hadn’t heard anyway, even with the insulation muffling their cabin. He slumped, defeated.</p><p>Yamato let go of his shoulder and walked away.</p><p>“You’ve caused me enough trouble today,” was his parting shot.</p><p>Tezuka clenched his fists. He couldn’t believe the upheaval of emotions that had flowed through him today: when Bobby Baker had thrown the punch at Syuusuke and he had seen white; then the terror and apprehension of when the Warden had descended on them; then he had thrown that puzzling fit of laughter, which made him wonder if he was going crazy; and now, the rage over this interference from someone who had been such a help in the past. But the guy had treated him like a baby, and he couldn’t tolerate that. All his life, he had had to act like a man.</p><p>Since there wasn’t anything he could do with these emotions, since they seemed to express over the objections of his own willpower, Tezuka did the only thing he could think of doing. He sank to the ground, stretched his long legs out in front of him, leaned his back against his family’s cabin. Then he breathed long and deeply, trying to calm the inner turmoil.</p><p>When he opened his eyes, he was startled to see another set of legs stretched out next to his. He glanced over to where Fuji had hunkered down and made himself at home.</p><p>For awhile they sat in silence, watching the silhouette of the mountains across the lake to the west turn purple as the sun sank lower behind them. At this time of year, the sky grew dark early in the evening and the sun set behind the mountains by three o’clock in the afternoon.</p><p>Suddenly, Fuji began to talk. “You know, just before the war, when I saw the new schoolteacher we were supposed to have that year, I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. When she smiled, her eyes went all crinkley in the corners --- I can’t do it myself, so I can’t show you --- and she had these sweet, sweet dimples and rosy, freckled cheeks. They made her look younger than most teachers. She had the most beautiful hair, a dark-red brown. Now that I think about it, it was the exact same colour as raw liver, but it looked very glossy and pretty on her. Her name was pretty, too: Mrs. Patsy Lovegood. What isn’t to love about a name like that?”</p><p>“Syuusuke,” Tezuka protested. He didn’t want to hear about a crush that Fuji had on a schoolteacher, especially a beautiful female one. He felt inexplicably jealous.</p><p>“Then she tried to pronounce my name--” Fuji leaned his head against the side of the house and stopped talking. Tezuka wondered if that was it, the whole story. Finally, it became obvious that Fuji was waiting for a prompt.</p><p>“What happened?”</p><p>“Oh, the usual: a bad comedy routine. You know that one which Abbott and Costello do on the radio, Who’s on First? Like that, only it was just her on and on with the Sai-yooooski, Say-you-sucky, Soo-Suki …”</p><p>Tezuka looked appalled.</p><p>“After awhile,” Fuji continued, “everyone figured out that she was making a joke out of me. Some of the meaner kids started to laugh. I rose to my feet with as much dignity as I could, and pronounced it correctly for her. Do you know what she said?</p><p>The taller boy shrugged ---</p><p>“Go on, take a guess!”</p><p>--- and shook his head.</p><p>“She said, “Well now, the last time I had a look at that map over our chalkboard, it read, “The Dominion of Canada” not “The Empire of Japan.”” Fuji’s voice rose into a falsetto parody of a catty woman’s voice. “There aren’t any nice Christian boys’ names in the English language that begin with Shu or Shyu, so I’m going to give you a name I can pronounce. In this class from now on, you’re going to be called “Sherman.” Do you have a problem with that?” She gave me a name like that, can you imagine?”</p><p>Yes, he could. He could imagine how Syuusuke loathed that awful name so unlike the music of his real name. Derision growled in Tezuka’s throat.</p><p>“Sounds like how I got named “Mitch”,” he said. “How does anyone get the name “Mitch” out of “Kunimitzu”?”</p><p>“Exactly. Of course, it wasn’t just about getting the class to laugh at me. It was a ploy to let all the bullies in that class know I was a safe target around her: that she would be turning a blind eye to flying mud, torn books and stolen pencil kits, that sort of stuff. Do you know what I did?”</p><p>“Hn.”</p><p>“I accepted her declaration of war and returned fire, of course. “If that is the best you can manage,” I said to her, “I guess the name “Sherman” will have to do.””</p><p>Tezuka was hooked. He wanted to know what happened next. “What did she say?”</p><p>“Her eyes got all mean and squinty and she said, “That sounds suspiciously like backtalk to me, young man. Are you going to start off your first day getting your palms tanned by my ruler?””</p><p>“And what did you do?”</p><p>“I took a deep breath, straightened my spine, and held out my hands, palms up.”</p><p>Tezuka stared. “You’re brave! Did she hit you?”</p><p>“Nah, but it wiped the smile off her face, and it let the bullies know it was a risky business to mess with me. It let them know I wasn’t scared to take on a teacher.”</p><p>“And smart enough to win!” Tezuka said.</p><p>Fuji gave him a wry smile. “So I thought at that time.”</p><p>“But you were that smart. You wiped the floor with her.”</p><p>Fuji voice was bitter. “I was a fool. I let my ego take control.”</p><p>“You taught her a thing or two.”</p><p>“One ignorant woman, that’s no victory. Subtlety is lost on such a person.”</p><p>“The bullies left you alone after that, didn’t they? That’s more than just one stupid teacher.”</p><p>“Yeah, they left me alone, Tezuka-kun. I might be small, but I’m a strong boy and I’m smart and I’m confident. I know who I am. So, of course they would leave me alone.” Fuji covered his eyes with a hand. His smile was completely gone. Tezuka got the feeling there was more to the story than Fuji was willing or ready to share.</p><p>“Do you want to hear something ironic?” Fuji asked after a bit. “When word got back to my mother, when she learned of the incident with Mrs. Lovegood, she and my father had an argument. This was after we’d been tucked into bed, when we were supposed to be asleep. I wasn’t asleep because they had lit into me for my disrespectful conduct and it bothered me that we weren’t supposed to sass our teachers, even when they’re wrong and stupid and mean.</p><p>“Anyway, I overheard them fighting, and my mother said, “If you had just let me call him “Norman” or “Fred” instead of those outlandish names my parents asked for, none of this would have happened. Of course he’s going to have trouble with that name --- all their names! They all will. They stick out.” Dad told her it wasn’t such a bad thing to stick out and maybe things wouldn’t be so hard for everyone if more people did. From the messages I keep getting everywhere else, it seems that Dad was wrong.”</p><p>Fuji laughed, “I don’t care. Even he was wrong, there’s no way I will ever answer to the name of Sherman --- or Norman, or Fred.”</p><p>For the first time since Tezuka had laid eyes on him, he looked weary. Something had distressed him, perhaps the same thing that had bothered Yamato, but Tezuka had no idea what it could be. He felt like comforting his friend though. Since he wasn’t sure how, he reached out and put his hand over Fuji’s, like a little kid. Fuji’s fingers were cold. Tezuka wanted to warm them, but he didn’t know if the intimate touch would offend his friend, so he patted them gently and withdrew his hand.</p><p>“When I first arrived in Canada,” he said, “there were all these articles in the newspapers accusing us of trying to take over the fishing industry and the farms along the Fraser River. They even wanted to throw us out of the country.”</p><p>“I remember that,” Fuji replied.</p><p>“I don’t know where they expected us to go. We would’ve been sentenced to death if we hadn’t have escaped from Japan.”</p><p>The blue eyes opened very wide.</p><p>“Sometimes we drove into one of the larger towns --- Mission, Abbottsford, Chilliwack --- to buy supplies and things, we would have to walk around these groups of itinerant men. You know the kind who lounged behind the hotel bars, waiting until the hour when it’s legal to drink? They would swear at us, call us names.”</p><p>Some dry leaves fluttered across the path. Even after their third year of growth, the saplings still looked scrawny. There were lots of late-blooming purple and violet asters and silvery wormwood plants, which added colour to the yard.</p><p>“I asked my father, “Did we take their jobs?” --- That was after we’d walked out of hearing range of course.” Tezuka closed his eyes, his memories darting back to the dirt, weeds and ruts of that unpaved alleyway with its massive electrical poles each strung with eight wires, the galvanized steel garbage cans emptied from the morning run, and the empty bottles heaped at the sides of the buildings, the ragged men squatting beside them. “My question really offended him. He huffed, “Take work from idle men!” --- As though I had asked him if he was a thief.”</p><p>“The Depression hit this country pretty hard,” Fuji said. “People who had worked hard all their lives lost everything.”</p><p>“Then they should’ve understood not to steal another man’s property and livelihood from him!” Tezuka’s voice rose.</p><p>It was Fuji’s turn to pat Tezuka’s hand. He didn’t. Instead, he stroked it with the tips of his cold fingers, like petting a cat. It sent shivers up Tezuka’s spine.</p><p>“I miss my father,” Tezuka whispered. “I’ve spent so much of my life kept apart from him.”</p><p>That’s when he noticed the dainty woman picking her way through the clods of dirt on the road. She was headed directly toward them. He gave Fuji a nudge.</p><p>“Yumiko!” He called out, as they struggled to their feet.</p><p>“Ah, there you are, Syuusuke. When I heard about what happened from Hiromoto-Ojisan, I came looking for you. I thought I might find you here.”</p><p>“Tezuka Kunimitzu, this is my sister, Yumiko!”</p><p>Tezuka looked at Syuusuke in surprise. The boy had never told him he had a sister. She was older than them by quite a few years, old enough to have a husband of her own. He wondered where she had been hiding when the friends got together to fix the Fuji cabin.</p><p>He bowed to her in the formal Japanese style.</p><p>“It is lovely to finally meet you, Adult-kun!” She said. “I feel like I already know you from Syuusuke’s glowing words. He is always talking about how Tezuka-kun did this and Tezuka-kun said that. I’m glad he has such a good friend.”</p><p>“Yumiko was living in the Hope camp until late this summer,” Syuusuke explained.</p><p>“Ah!” Tezuka felt shy.</p><p>“Please excuse me for interrupting, but have you seen Yuuta?”</p><p>“No,” Syuusuke’s face went pale. “He didn’t go home?”</p><p>“No, mother and I have been very worried about the two of you! Really, after something like that happened, is it too much to ask that you let us know that you’re alright?”</p><p>The boy looked ashamed. “I made you worry. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Never mind that now. Have you any idea where Yuuta might have gone? It’s getting dark now…”</p><p>“I think so.” Syuusuke turned to Tezuka again and said, “Can you excuse us, Tezuka? I have to--”</p><p>“Hai!” Tezuka answered. “Do you need any help?”</p><p>“No, I’m sure we will find him.” Before he turned to leave, Fuji gathered Tezuka’s hands in his and gave them a light squeeze. “Thank you, Tezuka, for what you did this afternoon. You called me “brave” but you are the one with the courage. Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Two days after the tennis match and the fight, the residents of the camp stood on their front stoops to watch as Yamato Yuudai was escorted beyond the barbed wire onto a decrepit bus.</p><p>Tezuka would always remember that day, how worn the wood was under his feet on the two steps which led down from the front door of their cabin. He remembered running an index finger along the side hem of his mother’s apron, only to find that it was so old, thin and papery, his fingers would’ve poked right through the fabric. He remembered that the sky was overcast and cold, but didn’t rain; that the poplars had lost their gold, but the larches were all orange-yellow flames on skeletons of black; that the lake was the colour of steel, but lit with the fire of the autumnal larches.</p><p>Six months later, a 3-page letter, heavily blacked out with ink, arrived for Yamato’s mother and they learned he was in a work camp, digging roads, location unknown.</p><p>Sixteen-year-old boys were not old enough to drink or vote. They were old enough to enlist in the armed forces, but actively discouraged from it until they reached the age of majority. Warden Baker had the authority of discretion when he decided which 16-year-olds were old enough to remain in the camp, and which were ready to join the healthy male adults on the work crews.</p><p>Tezuka had only just turned fifteen when Yamato was forced to leave the camp. He wondered how much longer the war could continue. If it didn’t end before he turned sixteen, would he be forced to abandon his mother and grandparents? Could they survive without him? Helplessness and futility choked him. He felt his hands curling into fists.</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. How it Ends</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Over the course of the war, things had improved somewhat in the camp. After one terrible blaze, kerosene lanterns had proven to be such a fire hazard in the straw-insulated cabins that electricity was brought in for the purpose of incandescent lighting fixtures. Proper rock-wool insulation and cinderblock footings and foundations replaced straw. The food was more plentiful and of better quality. They could use boats to fish on the lake and trucks to help haul in firewood off the mountain. They could raise chickens and rabbits for food. Care packages delivered through the Red Cross alleviated many problems.</p><p>Most of the townspeople seemed anxious to get along, especially since the tide of the war seemed to have turned. Warden Baker was heard to make the following observation to one of them, “My mother’s people were Irish and let me tell you, if it was a camp full of them, we would have more troubles than we could handle --- let that be a caution to rattlesnakes.”</p><p>Inui passed along some gossip he had overheard with regards to Baker’s son.</p><p>“He was raked over the coals for starting fights. His father told him that if he couldn’t control his temper, he would be sent into the army where he could cool his heels on the fields in France or Italy.”</p><p>That, and Yamato’s departure seemed to have cooled things down. Only Tezuka’s friends knew better. Shortly after Yamato had left, their usual after-school practice was interrupted when Bobby walked up and grabbed Tezuka’s arm, “We aren’t finished, you and me.”</p><p>“That is of no interest to me.” Tezuka circled his arm, breaking the other boy’s grip, and shaking off his hand.</p><p>“We didn’t finish our match.” </p><p>“You broke your racquet. That was the end.”</p><p>“Our game wasn’t over.” </p><p>The early November air was cold. The asphalt was wet and slick with rain. Rotting leaves were scattered over its surface like sheaves of disintegrating paper. This was going nowhere.</p><p>“You were losing when you broke your racquet,” Tezuka turned his back on Bobby. “Now you want a re-match? Your problems aren’t my concern.”</p><p>“Chicken? Scared you’re going to lose?”</p><p>“Your words are meaningless. Your insults have no bite.” Tezuka started to walk away, leaving Bobby there to hyperventilate.</p><p>“Wait!” Fuji, who had been sitting on top of a cinderblock barricade, jumped down. Tezuka turned back, curious. “I -- we accept your challenge.”</p><p>Bobby looked satisfied. He straightened up. “When? Where?”</p><p>“A doubles-match again, I think, although it doesn’t have to be with the same partners,” Fuji looked around. It was so late in the season. Snow had already progressed down past the halfway line of the mountains. “Does it have to be this autumn?”</p><p>Bobby looked sceptical, like he was being put off again.</p><p>“It’s just that the weather looks like snow,” Fuji observed. “If this match gets called off, no one will be satisfied. How about the end of spring training? Would that work?” </p><p>The warden’s son considered his options. He had the advantage of a gymnasium for his training. The Japanese-Canadian boys had nothing. In a couple of weeks, their patch of pavement would likely be covered with slush and ice. He also knew the extra practice would improve his chances.</p><p>Before he could open his mouth, however, Fuji waved his hand dismissively, “Those are my terms. If you won’t agree, I’m not interested.”</p><p>“I was about to agree,” the other boy grit out between clenched teeth.</p><p>“Excellent,” Fuji smiled. “Next spring it is.”</p><p>They watched Bobby stalk away. </p><p>“Fuji!” Tezuka protested.</p><p>“You said that his problems don’t concern you, that his words are meaningless and his names have no bite,” Fuji said, glancing sideways at his friend. “Is that true? </p><p>“A boy like that--!” Tezuka started. </p><p>“---Because I want to find out,” Fuji cut him off. “You also told me you wanted to play with me. Was that true?” </p><p>Tezuka felt a little shiver run down his spine, when Fuji pinned him under the gaze of those clear blue eyes. </p><p>“Because here’s your chance. Take it or leave it.”</p><p>“I don’t understand you,” Tezuka replied.</p><p>“Not yet,” Fuji gave him a coy little smile, like a girl. “Someday you might figure it out.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Even through the winter, Tezuka and Fuji trained. Drifts lay too deep across the fields and the asphalt was covered with a thick coat of rough ice and crusted snow, but there was a strip along the beach where the black stones and sand were clear. They would hit the ball toward each other there, and learned to aim their strokes precisely so the ball wouldn’t end up in the water. On occasion they had to retrieve the ball from the icy waves, which became another training of sorts, one that had to be followed with a hot shower in the communal bathhouse. They also climbed the mountain above them which rose in an almost vertical line to Idaho Peak, through deep drifts to build up their strength and endurance. </p><p>Other things happened that winter. The radio reports were full of stories about the air-battle over the Marianas, the defeat of the Japanese fleet at Leyte, D-Day, the victory at Monte Cassino and the Battle of the Bulge.</p><p>Kunihazu’s rheumatism had gotten to the point where he wasn’t comfortable unless he slept next to the stove, so the grandmother moved into Ayane’s room, and after his grandfather took over his cot, Kunimitzu had his own room. </p><p>Tezuka continued to dream of Fuji sleeping at his side, but now his dreams had become romantic and passionate in nature, filled with embraces, touches and kisses. Sometimes he daydreamed that Fuji was a girl so that they could get married and have a family together. Sometimes he dreamed that they lived even further away from civilization, in a place where they were free to love each other without the restraining influence of society. Sometimes when he woke up in the morning, he found that he had to whisk away his pyjamas bottoms and wash them in secret. He didn’t dare to touch himself in that tiny home where every sound could be heard through the walls, but he couldn’t help how his body reacted in his sleep. So all his physical energy went into his tennis training and he became strong, powerful, flexible and sure. And extremely frustrated.</p><p> </p><p>The match happened at the end of April, after even the drifts of dirt-crusted snow had dissolved in the shadiest places, and blossoming fruit trees turned The Orchard into an impressionist painting in pastels. The boys tried to keep it a secret, but like all such events, word quickly spread. Close to two-hundred people gathered to watch them play.</p><p>The first game of the match was pretty even. Bobby was strong and had improved his doubles play with his teammate, coordinating their movements, letting his partner have a chance. The other boy showed flexibility and speed. They were a more challenging pair. </p><p>Even so, Tezuka and Fuji won the first game. Easily.</p><p>During the second game, something strange happened. Fuji kept missing the ball. Not only missing it, but deliberately letting it pass, as though he wanted to lose. Tezuka stared, not able to believe his eyes. It couldn’t be possible. Confusion swirled around his brain.</p><p>Fuji had been the one who wanted this match, not Tezuka. Tezuka would’ve been happy to walk away from this fight, so what was the point of setting up a battle on court only to surrender without even rallying in defence?</p><p>“What are you doing?” He cried out, bewildered and upset.</p><p>Fuji smiled sweetly.</p><p>After another volley went past his partner unchallenged, Tezuka started to chase and return all the balls, playing against his doubles opponents as a single-man team. </p><p>After he managed to recover the second game from 30-love, Fuji began to respond to the game again. The ball was struck back and forth across the net a few times, and suddenly, Fuji lobbed it high and it went out-of-bounds. They lost the second game. </p><p>Tezuka wondered if he had offended Fuji somehow, and this was some sort of covert retaliation. He wondered if Fuji had hit his head and scrambled his wits on his way to the game. He racked his brains trying to think of some sort of explanation.</p><p>The next game was Tezuka’s service. Since he couldn’t depend on Fuji, he played his Zero-Shiki drop serve throughout and closed out his opponents. His arm felt the strain, plus after only three games in the set, his breath began to run short with the exertion of chasing after volleys to Fuji. </p><p>“Why are you doing this?” He shouted at his partner. Even if the other pair had improved, they weren’t that formidable. Tezuka and Fuji could’ve beaten them with ease. The only thing that Tezuka could guess was that Bobby had some sort of hold over his partner, something that was compelling him to throw the match. </p><p>“…He’s a mean kid who doesn’t let things go, stubborn as a mule and not half as intelligent. He’s got some strange kind of difficulty with his father…” Yamato’s last words filled his thoughts. “…Because of that, once you hurt his pride in front of his father, you can’t win. He’ll keep up and keep up and keep up with the sneak attacks until you’re done for and he’s satisfied. Do you understand?” </p><p>Was this why Fuji undermined their game? --- Because he knew or sensed that Bobby would never let things be until he had completely squashed his enemies? It didn’t seem to fit with what Tezuka understood or had experienced with the boy. </p><p>The next game was Bobby’s service, and he hit powerhouse balls that flew past. Tezuka felt sick. The Higuma Otoshi should’ve sufficed to return them, but Syuusuke wasn’t using any of his counters. They lost.</p><p>“Hey, Fuji! Did you collect a pay-off?” Arai yelled from the sidelines. So the others had also noticed. It was a direct reference to the World Series scandal of 1919, as cutting an insult as any athlete could endure.</p><p>“Have you lost your guts?” Kaidoh growled.</p><p>Fuji’s smile dropped, probably the only sign Tezuka would get that the insinuations had angered him, but it wasn’t enough to spur the boy to do his best. Now Tezuka was really curious. Something was definitely up. Unfortunately, only the wildest, most unbelievable explanations leapt to mind. </p><p>Maybe their opponents had threatened to hurt his family. Tezuka inhaled his breath very suddenly. He swung his head around, quickly scanning the audience. Yuuta was watching the match, his face dark and strained, his hands flexing and clenching into fists. All the anger was directed at his brother. Yuuta was furious at Syuusuke. Why? It had to be because Bobby had threatened to hurt Yuuta. Then he remembered the last time they had fought, how Fuji had run up to throw himself between Bobby’s fists and Yuuta, so that didn’t make sense either. </p><p>Tezuka raced after all the shots again, even the power shots and smashes made his shoulder feel like it was getting ripped out of its socket. He needed a different strategy. </p><p>Then he decided to try something new, something which required a certain spin so that his opponent would return the ball directly into his strike zone. A few times, he chased left to right after the ball, making small adjustments in the angle of his racquet, even shoving Fuji away at one point to prevent his partner from interfering and breaking his pattern. Soon, the distance from side-to-side began to narrow. Then, no matter where he volleyed, no matter what stroke his opponents used, the ball swung directly back to him as though it was being sucked into a vortex. He sent Bobby and his partner chasing all over the court after his returns, but he never had to shift more than one foot at a time, pivoting on the other. It saved him a mountain of effort. </p><p>He could hear the cheering from the sides. Momoshiro called out, “The ball is being drawn to him like he’s a magnet.”</p><p>Eiji cried, “It’s a Tezuka Zone!”</p><p>They won, but barely. Strangely, Bobby looked satisfied. They didn’t shake hands at the end, but the boy looked at his partner and nodded as though he could live with this closure. They walked away without further comment.</p><p>Tezuka’s friends went wild, cheering and jumping. He was surrounded on all sides by the excited group, felt himself being lifted in their arms and thrown in the air. He let them sweep him up like a conquering hero for awhile, but wrestled himself back to the ground when he saw Fuji slipping away quietly, trying not to be noticed. </p><p>Tezuka chased after his friend.</p><p>Momoshiro, in turn, started following him, until Eiji reached out and clutched his elbow with a warning shake of the head. Tezuka was relieved that he didn’t have to explain this to his friends, that they understood it was something that needed to be worked out between them.</p><p>Tezuka caught up to Fuji at the edge of the compound. He grabbed his arm, whirling him around to face him. Fuji reacted like a rag doll, except to shake his head and laugh, low and mirthlessly. </p><p>“I don’t understand you,” Tezuka pushed Fuji backward to the wall of the shed, kept his hand pressed firmly against his shoulder. “Why didn’t you do your best? You’ve never been ashamed of who we are before. Why would you allow them to--?” He changed the words “humiliate us” to, “--win?”</p><p>A slice of blue flashed up at Tezuka from beneath thick lashes. </p><p>“But we won, Tezuka,” Fuji’s laugh was bitter. “You made up for all my shortcomings. You didn’t need me there at all.”</p><p>“Don’t play me for a fool!”</p><p>The tip of Fuji’s pink tongue flicked across his lips and Tezuka stiffened, acutely aware of them, their shape, rosy colour and firmness, the sheen of moisture drawn across them. He felt a magnetic pull, as though they wanted him to lean closer. His head started to tilt.</p><p>“This wasn’t about my pride,” Fuji finally started to explain. </p><p>Tezuka pulled back, spell broken.</p><p>“Did you ever consider what they would do to us if we won?”</p><p>Tezuka straightened. </p><p>“You do know what happens when we’re considered strong enough to make it on our own, don’t you?”</p><p>Tezuka thought back to that day in October when the residents of the camp stood on their front stoops to watch as Yamato Yuudai was escorted beyond the barbed wire onto a decrepit bus. Work camp. Digging roads. Location unknown. </p><p>Kunimitzu’s father was in such a camp somewhere, his letters short and empty of any information that authorities considered sensitive.</p><p>Tezuka licked his dry lips. He missed his father, more than he could say.</p><p>“Yuuta and Yumiko--” he started to say. </p><p>“--Can look after themselves very well,” Fuji finished. “At least Yumiko can. Yuuta still needs me to keep an eye out for him, much as he hates the idea. It isn’t just our family. Now that Yamato’s gone, who do you think cares for Hiromoto-Ojisan and Obaasan?” </p><p>Then Tezuka remembered how Yamato’s mother did not weep when her son was compelled to leave --- would never show her tears --- but Koko, who lived in the cabin beside them, did. So Yamato had extended care beyond his family’s cabin to the old woman and her husband, probably bringing them gifts of extra trout and kokanee salmon poached from the lake, extra baskets of blackberries and huckleberries from the forest, making sure their woodbin was filled. It seemed Fuji had taken over these extra cares once Yamato had been forced out.</p><p>“You did this to protect them?” In that split-second, with this new realization, everything Tezuka thought he knew about Fuji changed. </p><p>“Things aren’t always what they seem on the surface, Kunimitzu,” Syuusuke said.</p><p>That last cold suspicion as to the selfishness of the tensai’s motives, the last lingering reservation which had twisted up his wholehearted admiration so that he could never express it, evaporated like ghost fogs. </p><p>Tezuka leaned forward on impulse and captured Fuji’s mouth, sliding his lips against the other’s. Fuji froze in shock, but their kiss was long and soft and moist. Tezuka started to sweep his tongue out when a long shuddering exhale left the smaller boy, and he suddenly realized what he was doing. What was he doing?!</p><p>He immediately reeled away, wiping his lips with the back of his hands, his eyes wide with horror.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Fuji. Oh gosh, I’m sorry!”</p><p>Then he turned and ran.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Tezuka hid for the rest of the afternoon in his room. He was mortified at his lack of self-control and sick at heart, certain that Fuji was repulsed by his strangeness. He couldn’t face his friends, couldn’t go out in case he ran into the other boy. He couldn’t bear being apart from Fuji, but didn’t dare face the possibility of being rejected. So he hid and felt ashamed at his lack of courage. </p><p>Under his bed was a stack of cheap comic books. He and his friends had once collected and traded them --- Superman, Captain Marvel, The Saint. They didn’t receive much of an allowance, but usually there was enough for one new comic each month. This interest had slowly died off after he turned thirteen. He couldn’t remember the last time he had picked one up, except that it had been some time before Yamato’s expulsion. It seemed to have corresponded with his interest in tennis. Tezuka picked up one of his comic books and lost himself in the simple stories. Through that long afternoon, he made his way through the stack.</p><p>Shortly before his grandmother and Ayane began preparations for supper, he heard a quiet knock on their front door. When it was opened, he heard his mother converse with a strange woman. Soon, there was a quiet knock on his bedroom door.</p><p>“Kunimitzu,” his mother called. “You have a visitor.”</p><p>He was reluctant to leave, but curiosity overcame it. When he came out, he saw Yumiko standing on their front stoop. “Tezuka-kun, would you please be so kind as to join me for a short walk?” </p><p>He nodded and pulled on his sweater. </p><p>“Supper is in one hour,” Ayane warned. </p><p>Yumiko chatted lightly about inconsequential things as they walked to the beach. Then she sat on a massive driftwood log and patted the space beside her.</p><p>“I expect you know why I called.”</p><p>“Syuusuke--!” Tezuka flushed bright red.</p><p>“Yes, we all saw the match,” she said. “You must be furious with him.”</p><p>The boy stared. Clearly, Fuji hadn’t told her about the kiss. Was it even possible that Fuji had told no one about how Tezuka had kissed him?</p><p>“Fuji takes things to heart a lot deeper than we think,” she continued. “Because he always has such a beautiful smile, he gives off the impression of being completely carefree and light. But there isn’t a superficial bone in his body and he acts with so much subtlety and finesse that most people cannot fathom him at all.”</p><p>“Hai!” Tezuka looked at his feet. Yumiko didn’t have to tell him that. He already knew. From the moment he had first laid eyes on Fuji, he had known. It was the foundation of everything he felt for him, even the confusion.</p><p>“Ah, so he told you about his last schoolteacher then?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Did he tell you what happened to Yuuta after that?”</p><p>Tezuka looked up. </p><p>“No,” he said slowly.</p><p>“Since Syuusuke would not be intimidated and there was no point in going after him, they targeted Yuuta instead. He was much smaller then, even smaller than Syuusuke.” Tezuka learned how Yuuta would come home barely able to restrain his tears at whispered slurs, or with bruised knees from tripping over a leg that had been slung out in the aisle for that purpose. </p><p>One day, he had stumbled home covered in dirt, his face and body so swollen with cuts and bruises, his clothes and books torn, that he was barely recognizable. </p><p>Fuji’s mother, Yoshiko, took one look and became hysterical. </p><p>“I had to bring her inside to calm her down. Syuusuke helped Yuuta to the bathroom.” </p><p>There, he helped him out of his clothes and gently poured water over his head and body to rinse away the blood and dirt. Then he called their father long distance in Vancouver where he was taking part in a symposium at the university. </p><p>There was a long silence on the other end after he explained. Finally he heard a long sigh, “Take him to the clinic. He needs to be checked by a doctor. He may even need x-rays.”</p><p>It turned out that Yuuta’s shoulder had been dislocated when a trio of boys had assaulted him. His forearm had been broken. His screams as the orderlies held him down and the orthopaedic surgeon pushed the bone back into its socket were almost unendurable. When the family returned home that night, it was with their physician’s warning that Yuuta had to let the bones, torn cartilage, ligaments and muscles heal, and he would probably have trouble with his shoulder for the rest of his life. </p><p>Shortly after the assault, war was declared and their father lost his job. They given two days to put their affairs in order, then escorted to the holding pens at the Pacific National Exhibition grounds to await transfer into the interior. Yumiko was sent to Hope with her uncle’s family. Yoshiko and Syuusuke stayed in Vancouver until Yuuta was released from the doctor’s care. </p><p>Tezuka remembered the day that Syuusuke introduced his brother to him. He remembered the cast and the brace around the boy’s neck. His heart sank when he thought of how the older boy had taken the responsibility for those injuries upon himself. He ached to hold Syuusuke and comfort him. He ached with the knowledge that this was impossible. His shock and anxiety must’ve been clear on his face. Yumiko must’ve read his expression to know how deeply the story affected him. </p><p>“Syuusuke will be thrilled to hear that you’ve forgiven him,” she said quietly. “He admires you so.”</p><p>“He does?” Tezuka was sure that wasn’t the case any more.</p><p>“Oh, yes! He always talks about you, how selfless and hardworking you are, how you sacrifice your own comfort to help others, how hard you strive to achieve. He told me that, more than anyone he has ever met, he wants most to be like you.”</p><p>Tezuka felt worse than ever. He had lost his best friend. It was the worst day of his life, worse than the day his father had disappeared when he was five, worse than the day they were separated in Vancouver. Yumiko looked at his stricken face and laughed, completely misunderstanding the cause of his misery. She thought everything was resolved.</p><p>“I can’t imagine that Syuusuke will ever forgive me,” he said. </p><p>Yumiko frowned, puzzled.</p><p>“Thank you for your kindness,” Tezuka stood. He bowed and took his leave. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He was unable to sleep that night.</p><p>The next morning, just as dawn started to lighten the world around him, he took his fishing pole and walked down to the lake. The Orchard was awash in pink, light green and plum, and the mating calls of robins and yellow-crested western tanagers. A warm breeze would send showers of petals across Tezuka’s path. Tulips, crocuses and hyacinths carpeted the lawns. The air was filled with perfume.</p><p>He carefully stepped off the pier into the rowboat and pulled on his life-vest. He was just about to unhitch the mooring line, when a pair of feet in canvas topsiders stepped forward. He followed the legs up to Syuusuke’s bright blue eyes and soft smile, and stared, unable to speak.</p><p>It was just that glorious enough that Fuji didn’t hate him after all. </p><p>Without an invitation, the other boy lowered his fishing tackle into the boat and joined him. They pushed off and started rowing into the middle of the lake. </p><p>The fishing also took place in silence. They continued for a couple of hours, even after they had a nice haul. </p><p>“We’re going to be late for school,” Fuji finally observed.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“We’re breaking the rules.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“It’s Saturday anyway, isn’t it?”</p><p>It was Thursday. After a long moment, Tezuka said, “Yes.”</p><p>Syuusuke reeled in his line and neatly put away his rod and tackle. He leaned up against a mound of extra life-vests at the front of the boat and watched Tezuka fish, enjoying the warming sun and cooling breeze, smiling with satisfaction.</p><p>“Yumiko told me about Yuuta,” Tezuka finally said. “She was concerned that I was angry at you and might not forgive you.”</p><p>He snorted with laughter. </p><p>“That was very kind, but meddlesome of her,” Syuusuke answered. “I was afraid you wouldn’t forgive me either.”</p><p>“Forgive you! When it was me who--?” Tezuka couldn’t finish.</p><p>“--Who kissed me?” Syuusuke’s smile grew even larger. “You have no idea how long I’d hoped you would do that --- gave up on the idea that it would ever happen actually. I thought all the signs of attraction were just my imagination. I’m glad it happened.”</p><p>“You are?” Tezuka couldn’t believe his ears.</p><p>Syuusuke cocked his head to one side, “Looking forward to another, if you feel up to it.”</p><p>“Oh, I--” Tezuka was so abashed, his words failed him.</p><p>The smaller boy sighed and lowered his arm over the side of the boat, trailing his fingers in water that was icy from the melting snowpack. “Knowing my kind, but meddlesome, sweet sister, you were probably left with a mistaken impression of that situation with Yuuta.”</p><p>“There was something about it that struck me as strange.” Tezuka said. Fuji waited for him to explain and it took a few minutes to gather the right words together, “Usually when you feel that someone you like has been threatened by a tennis opponent, your fighting spirit grows more powerful. You don’t withdraw. I saw that last year, when you first accepted Bobby’s challenge. You fought him for the sake of our tennis club, didn’t you?”</p><p>“It’s true. I don’t back down from a fight on court.” Fuji nodded.</p><p>“Yet you did this time. Why? You are not a coward. You’ve never been afraid before.”</p><p>“I wasn’t afraid of Bobby. I was afraid of myself.” </p><p>Then Syuusuke told Tezuka about what happened after Yuuta was sent to the hospital.</p><p>He had reached a dark resolution. He rummaged through his father’s second-best work briefcase where he was sure he remembered seeing a set of dissecting scalpels and, prize in hand, walked out determined to find the boys who had hurt his younger brother.</p><p>He found them alright, in the vacant lot next to Cassidy’s Corner Store Confectionary: a gang of three tough boys, the youngest he recognized from Yuuta’s class, the next was a boy in his own class --- the youngest kid’s brother as it turned out --- and the oldest, a sinewy 14-year-old who had a cigarette dangling from his lips. He felt pretty confident that he could take them all on, even the big one. They had already proven themselves cowards by attacking Yuuta, but just as Syuusuke threw out his challenge, a lash of cold water whipped across their bodies.</p><p>“Go on, you lousy punks! Git outta here!” </p><p>They turned as one to face their new attacker, a grown man. A grown man wearing a butcher’s apron, Syuusuke noticed, Billy Cassidy, the owner of the confectionary. He had turned his garden hose on them like they were a group of squalling cats.</p><p>“Get a move on before I call the police!”</p><p>They turned to run, but Mr. Cassidy pointed at Syuusuke, “You, boy, come here! Your mother called.”</p><p>Syuusuke froze on the point of flight, “What?”</p><p>“You heard me. She wants you to bring home some things from my store.”</p><p>Stunned, Syuusuke waited until the grocer turned off his hose and followed him into his store. The place was stacked to the ceiling with boxes and canned goods. The counters at the front were stuffed with jars of penny candy and racks of chocolate bars and cigarette packages. A lit cigar burned in an ashtray on a shelf behind the till, and an unfolded newspaper that looked like it had been dropped suddenly, took up the flat space.</p><p>“Gotta hand it to you, kid, you have guts,” the man pulled out a paper bag and opened it with a snap. He started filling it with things that Syuusuke knew his mother would never order: a bottle of milk when the delivery truck brought the milk every second morning, a loaf of bread when she baked it from scratch every Tuesday and Friday, a carton of eggs when they collected fresh ones from the neighbour’s backyard coop every day. “After what they did to your brother today --- I’m assuming that was your kid brother they ganged up on; I was too late to help him out --- your guts would’ve been smeared all over my front sidewalk.”</p><p>“I didn’t start this,” Syuusuke bit through clenched teeth.</p><p>“Yeah? Well, listen up! Most of the folks in this neighbourhood are families of longshoremen and they don’t take kindly to being shown up. Don’t kid yourself! If you managed to best those punks, think it’s gonna end there? What do you think they’re gonna do next time you aren’t around to babysit your brother? Or your sister? You better smarten up!” </p><p>Syuusuke didn’t say a word but lifted his chin, stubborn and proud. The man took out his tally-book and jotted up the items and their costs. He shot the boy a glance over his calculations, and snorted, “So what! Next you’re gonna tell me life isn’t fair? Cry me a river.”</p><p>He tore the bill off his notebook and stuck it in the paper bag. “I expect you to settle up these items first thing tomorrow morning. The advice was free.”</p><p>“Advice--?”</p><p>“Yeah. Now, look sharp. Your pals probably called up a few more of their buddies and will be waiting to ambush you in one of the laneways between here and your home. You’re gonna have to circle around and go home the back way. </p><p>Syuusuke smoothed the sleeves of his grey woollen cardigan. “I’m not a coward.”</p><p>“I thought we already made that clear,” the grocer said. “The question now is whether or not you’re a fool. So pay attention. This fight has nothing to do with you, your brother or your family personally, so don’t go around adding fuel to it. See?”</p><p>No, Syuusuke did not see, could not see. How could this man say it wasn’t personal? The sound of Yuuta’s screams was too fresh in his mind. </p><p>Mr. Cassidy stood there watching him. Finally, with a huge sigh, he picked up the paper sack and handed it over, “You’re too young to know what this is all about, aren’t you? That’s a real shame. Trust me, you gotta learn to pick your battles. This one, you can’t win. Now, go on--Oh, one last thing!”</p><p>Syuusuke waited.</p><p>“That shiv in your pocket--?”</p><p>Even if he was wrong about the type of weapon he was carrying, Mr. Cassidy figured it right that he was carrying one.</p><p>“Get rid of it.” </p><p>The boy nodded quickly and left. </p><p>“So, you see, I am by nature a very violent boy,” Syuusuke summed up the story for Tezuka. “I am terrified of where my anger could take me if I were to lose control.”</p><p>“But you didn’t lose control,” Tezuka said. </p><p>“Ah, but not by my own choice or volition --- only because I had the good fortune to have some grace by the name of Billy Cassidy step in and save me from myself. Me, I haven’t conquered anything intrinsic at all. I was ready to commit a terrible crime.”</p><p>“But you didn’t,” Tezuka repeated. “You don’t know what would’ve happened if Cassidy hadn’t stepped in. Maybe that grace would’ve come from inside yourself.”</p><p>“Do you think so?” Syuusuke’s eyes, as he stared at Tezuka, were more serious than he had ever seen.</p><p>“I think it is entirely possible. And you know what you are capable of now, so you are forearmed with self-awareness. That’s pretty useful.”</p><p>A weight seemed to lift from Syuusuke’s shoulders.</p><p>“Hey, Tezuka, we make a pretty good team, you and me. Don’t we?”</p><p>“Oh yes!” Tezuka wholeheartedly agreed. </p><p>Then, having caught what he most desired on that fishing trip, he decided to call it a day and rowed them back to shore.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>1945 brought a lot of changes to the New Denver settlement. They learned of the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki over the radio, and the unconditional surrender of Japan shortly after that. </p><p>Tezuka Kuniharu returned to his family within the month, as did Fuji’s father. </p><p>They were not allowed to return to the west coast, however. In fact, the government of BC wanted them to leave Canada altogether. It wasn’t until 1949, when the issue of an ethnic cleansing threatened to bring the province to the attention of the World Court in contravention of human rights under the Geneva Convention that the Japanese-Canadians were finally allowed back, a full three years after the same Germans who had been at war with Canada were allowed to live and work there. Since their properties and businesses had been sold, there was nothing left for the Japanese-Canadians anywhere. Many of them decided to return to Japan. Many of them stayed in the New Denver area. </p><p>Kunimitzu and Syuusuke were amongst those who returned to Japan with their families. They ended up studying, living and working in Tokyo together. Both of them enjoyed the sport of tennis for the rest of their lives.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>References for the historical details used in this fiction:</b> </p><p>Hane, Mikiso, <i>Reflections on the Way to the Gallows: Rebel Women in Pre-War Japan,</i> University of California Press, ©1988: this book provided ideas of what life may have been like for political dissenters in Japan during the era of 1934 – 1939.</p><p>Adachi, Ken, <i>The Enemy That Never Was,</i> McClelland &amp; Stewart, Toronto: © 1976. This book provided me with solid factual information about the political climate in Canada prior to the war for Japanese Immigrants and Canadian-born descendents of Japanese Immigrants Internment, as well as details of how they were treated during the war.</p><p>Takashima, Shizuye, <i>A Child in Prison Camp,</i> Tundra Books, Toronto, ©1991. This story provided me with a child’s view of what the prison-camp experience was like.</p><p>S. Keiran, "Mitch Miyagawa, Playwright, An Interview", 2004 ARTiculate magazine. Mitch Miyagawa, award-winning playwright of "The Plum Tree" describes his family's experiences in a Nikkei camp during WWII, the broader experiences of Nikkei, and the 1988 restitution. </p><p>Many thanks to the Nikkei Memorial Japanese-Canadian Internment Camp Museum and Historical Site in New Denver, where I saw the types of homes the prisoners lived in and what conditions they faced, and the Japanese-Canadian Internment Archive at the Langham Gallery in Kaslo, with its collection of black and white photographs and documents.</p><p>Wikipedia also provided a lot of names, dates and historical details.</p><p>An apology:</p><p>There may be many unintentional factual errors in this story. I did my best to research the background material and often drew on personal anecdotes from people who went through this struggle as my source material. I did not experience it or anything like it, so if there are mistakes or if I have offended you, please forgive me. I simply wanted to create a story that captured the essence of that experience, but my imagination is a poor copy of reality.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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